


Don't Look So Damn Tragic

by leslielol



Category: Justified
Genre: Action/Adventure, And other fun activities, Character Death, Coming Out, Drinking, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Road Trips, Violence, dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 110,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2050740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslielol/pseuds/leslielol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm going to kill you," Tim says, slow and quiet. The throbbing in his head seems to subside in favor of this, a single moment of clarity. "I've just decided."<br/>Boyd smiles. In the dark of the truck, his wild, white grin hangs from his sharp features like the moon itself. "Well, I can't say that you won't want to."</p><p>  <i>A stunt of Boyd's comes back to bite him as Raylan and Tim make it their business to Mess Up His Day. All that's needed is their patience, professionalism... and passports.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a really old fic I started after season 4 ended, and only recently decided to continue and post in an effort to RAISE MYSELF UP out of my writing dry spell. I hope it's enjoyable! It's still very much a work in progress. The title is from Hawksley Workman's "Lethal and Young." 
> 
> The story itself takes place directly after the events of "Ghosts,"--Mark is dead, Colt is dead, Ava was arrested by Mooney, and Boyd is in a tailspin.
> 
> I don't own anything, am not making any profit, and apologize in advance for this. All of this. It's just fun nonsense.

A crease sets in between Tim Gutterson’s eyes, a slow process that draws with it yet more lines, like a wealth of tributaries feeding from a fixed river. 

“What. Wait. _What._ ”

The questions, in Tim’s mind, are coming rapidfire. His audience--a single, exasperated bartender--knows otherwise.

Tim squints further. “Your name is Ted Bundy?”

“I go by Theodore.”

“That don’t change things,” Tim insists, then repeats with a kind of thoughtful ease, “Ted Bundy.”

The bartender, who is simultaneously fulfilling orders and dealing with Tim’s paced delivery, sighs and exclaims, “Jesus Christ, Tim, we have this same conversation every other week.”

Tim just grins and draws his latest drink to his lips. “I'm just saying--you can't be a bartender and call yourself Theodore. Drunks can't pronounce that shit. That's like... Three syllables.”

“I’d like to think the regulars can manage it.” 

Tim upends his glass, then clatters it on the bartop. He gestures for another. “Yeah, you keep thinking that.”

\- 

Tim stares at his glass. Save for some streaking along the inside, and the little bit of liquid pooling at the bottom that, despite Tim’s efforts, never collects and draws out of the glass, it’s empty. His gaze climbs the table he’s relocated himself to and he sees that the bottle is empty, too. 

And yet, he still feels like shit. 

_What a fucking betrayal,_ Tim thinks, and paws at the wallet in his jacket pocket. He’ll have more whether he can afford it or not, but there is something to be said for checking that he can still manage to leave a tip. 

Tim finds he had plenty of bills, but the sight suddenly leaves him feeling physically ill. _You know I don’t have that much cash on me._

Four days ago, he’d lied to Mark. He’d lied because it was easy, and in their current context seemed appropriate. They were in a VA center together, like they had been a year ago when Mark was weaning himself off Oxy and Tim was trying his hand at AA, if only because the meeting times coincided. It usually happened that he and Mark would get a drink after, anyway. 

There was a trick--a tip they’d both learned, separate, in their meetings about substance abuse. They were advised to simply not keep much cash on their person. It was a manageable effort and didn’t come at much cost to either man’s ego. Still, it wasn’t something that Tim practiced after amassing a collection of silver 24-hour chips and not much else. 

Now, Tim keeps his attention on the drink in front of him. It’s still empty, but to his left there’s the beer he prefers to save for the end of the night, room temperature and all. It’s far enough away on the table that it could be for some imagined guest in his booth. Mark is heavy on his mind but Tim has no desires for company. Although he fielded an overture earlier in the evening, he dispelled it expertly. 

She was pretty, Tim remembers vaguely. He can’t remember her face or hair or body type, but she had the kind of misplaced confidence of speaking for a friend. He tries to imagine sleeping with her--a difficult enough task without recalling her features--but only succeeds in replacing the warm feeling in his belly with a kind of coiling, cold one. He feels flushed out and empty, and decides he needs to do less thinking and more drinking. 

As he’s reaching for the beer, another shadow bears over his table and Tim thinks she’s back--or the friend is taking a shot--and he looks up with a kindly dismissal set to part his lips. 

The visitor is the furthest thing from a friend.

“Son, I’d just like a word.”

The tone is honey-like and tempered--gentle, even. Tim heard it last in the tent-church, whispered from behind, a broken conscience Tim hadn’t heard from in a while. _Need I remind you, you are an officer of the peace?_ No, this is not the Boyd Crowder who antagonized Raylan, flung around hillbilly hoots and hollers, and preached sweet salvation to meth heads. 

Tim _prefers_ that Boyd Crowder. He doesn’t like the one who worms his way into one of Tim’s haunts on the outskirts of Lexington, all the while flanked by two shapeless muscle-for-hire types.

Uninvited, Boyd takes the seat beside Tim. Even bundled in a shirt, vest, and wooly coat, he retains the wiry nature of his unburdened self. His movements are more akin to a slither, while other men in the bar--similarly layered--move stiffly. 

Boyd says, “I thought we’d both appreciate a quiet moment to commiserate our loss.”

“Not much of a loss,” Tim returns, purposefully mean-spirited. He doesn’t care about Colton Rhodes, didn’t much mind shooting him after the stunt he’d pulled on that empty stretch of highway. Drinking his weight in Jim Beam is only a formality, really.

Boyd smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They remain sharp as his tongue. "Is not every loss in our ranks a tragedy?"

He puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder as a sign of camaraderie. Tim, who won’t let anything less than a war interrupt his drinking--never has--just stares it down until it lifts again.

Tim inches his glass away from his lip just enough to issue a warning: “I will shoot your hand off, you lay it on me again.” 

It doesn’t matter to Tim that he doesn’t actually have his piece on him. With as stupid drunk as he intends to get tonight, he's purposefully retired his sidearm to its lockbox before embarking on the evening's festivities.

Still, it isn’t an empty threat. Tim can deliver in the spirit the thing was issued. He can snap Crowder's wrist, turn it back for him so that he too can read the ugly message tattooed across his knuckles. Just the thought of it makes Tim smile. 

Boyd pulls back, his face open and unamused, as though Tim’s lack of sentimentality actually gives offense. It’s nothing Boyd feels sincerely, Tim knows. Maybe he carries some feeling for Raylan Givens--and, however misplaced, Raylan returns it--but it’s all caught up in coal dust and Harlan County, Kentucky. There’s nothing remotely inside that emotional wheelhouse for Tim, even if they share some similar service experiences. Even if they had served together, Tim’s read Boyd’s file and knows he only did one tour, and whatever kind of soldier he was, he nonetheless came back home a civilian, and an incarcerated one, at that. Then there were his respective stints as a white supremacist, religious leader, and an outlaw. After all that, he still went back into the mines. 

That’s where Boyd Crowder’s loyalty lies, Tim suspects. And that’s why, for as many plans and friends of Boyd’s Raylan has ruined, the cowboy Marshal still lives. Nothing packs in desert sands like it does in a coal mine. 

Boyd breathes in through his nose--some long, laborious task--and then presses a hand to his breast, as if begging Tim’s pardon. 

As he speaks, Tim can’t help but picture an oil slick. 

“Though I only had the good intention of honoring the life of my friend here tonight--perhaps with your inclusion, to bury the hatchet, as they say--I can see you're busy.” Boyd drops both hands flat on the table, punctuating his comments. 

It’s a few too many words for the simple parting Tim wants, so he is bothered on principle. 

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, settling into his beer. “Fuck right off.” 

Boyd huffs a small, unamused laugh. He drums his fingers against the fine grain of the table. 

It’s so unsettling a combination--the precise rhythm spun atop the warm laughter--that Tim lowers his drink, then turns to look at Boyd, to study his movements and follow his retreat. It’s purely instinctive, this desire to see a threat disappear. Tim’s so wary of Boyd’s forked tongue, however, that the outlaw’s inked hand goes unnoticed. Boyd’s hand falls on Tim again, smooths over his neck and fits in where the collar of his shirt gapes and exposes warm flesh. 

Tim feels something sharp pierce his skin, something so alien yet horrifyingly familiar. 

He jerks away and plows backwards, aiming to pin the offending hand against the back wall. Boyd follows through the motion and keeps his grip firm. Tim’s crushing his hand against the wall and, all the while, Boyd stays with him. Dull nails draw on Tim’s skin, and Boyd’s arm suddenly takes the weight of a cinder block.

“There’s more,” Boyd warns, breath hot over Tim’s ear. “And trust me, son, you don’t want no more of that.” 

Tim throws a wild punch and is only assured of its landing by the sound. 

A good punch is dull, but solid. It doesn’t ring out like an offending slap or resonate like a gunshot. Best of all, Tim doesn't have a limited supply. He hurls himself forward and pulls himself back, forcing Boyd Crowder to the ground and landing on top of him. Tim delivers punch after punch until he feels the assault lose some of its force, and then he feels sick, realizing Boyd isn't fighting back. By that time, he's made a spectacle of himself. 

“Goddamnit, Tim!” Theodore calls out from behind the bar. He slams something heavy against the shiny wooden tabletop--a bottle of whiskey or something, something brown, and Tim can’t believe he’s taking the time to will these minute details into memory when he can hardly see straight. “We talked about this!” He looks ready to leave his post and take Tim to task himself. Tim hopes he will. He wants the bartender to finally make good on all those threats to call the Marshal Service when Tim is drunk off his ass and hinging on belligerent. 

Boyd raises a hand from the ground, pulls himself up and is all smiles through his bloodied lip. Tim sees a shock of white between all the red; a sinister Christmas favor. “It’s fine, sir, I’m a friend.”

Tim's tongue feels like wet cotton in his mouth. There's a protest on his lips but it's lost in translation, mistaken by curious patrons as the ramblings of a drunk. 

Theodore, blessedly, looks unsure. “Not a very friendly hello.”

Boyd grins wider. It's charisma and confidence spelled out in Colgate-white teeth. “Oh, you know Tim.” 

Tim shouts something he imagines is discouraging, but Theodore is being flagged down by thirsty-- _paying_ \--customers. He turns away and Tim watches helplessly as blackness swallows up his line of sight, and he loses consciousness.

Tim's heavier than he looks, and on top of that he doesn't make it easy for Boyd to get ahold of him. Though he feels only intermittently present, he doesn't allow his body to ever stop fighting. In the parking lot, he thrashes and continues to lob heavy punches and sharp elbows. It isn't long, however, before he can feel his efforts weaken. He takes aim and falls short; it's frightening in its unfamiliarity. 

The mystery substance is a muscle relaxer, Tim figures by the time he’s being bundled into Boyd’s truck. He feels slow and loose, yet his mind is racing, his heart ready to burst. The terror is borne of not being entirely sure, but where it counts--in some forward-thinking segment of his brain where Tim fosters an innate place of complete calm twinned with a healthy, steady panic--he knows that anything else would have been too great a shock to his system, or slow to operate without tasting the blood in his veins, first. A muscle relaxer, that’s all. 

It’s a plea for levelheadedness, as well as an order. It’s _just_ a muscle relaxer, he tells himself a million times in the span of seconds. _That’s all._

Nevermind that it was a meth-dealing, Oxy-selling, marijuana-stealing outlaw who dosed him.

But he spares a thought for how much he’s had to drink, and supposes it's only right that his head feel like it's being forced through a keyhole. 

“Where are we going,” Tim asks. He can feel his lips buzzing and isn't sure if he's being understood when Boyd looks at him funny. 

“Where do you live?” 

Tim’s stomach fills with a cold, heavy dread and he doesn’t answer. His head’s swimming with thoughts of a staged suicide or something worse. This is revenge for Colt, Tim realizes. He can't help but think an ambush in the bar would have sufficed, so the fact that he isn't bleeding out from two pops to the chest, dramatically issuing his last call order to Theodore, is a matter of some concern. Tim turns some and buries his nose in the cold of the passenger side window, thinking the chill will help clear his thoughts. 

“That’s fine,” Boyd says. “We can just drive around, some.” 

At least at the window, Tim has the rearview window in his sights. He knows the muscle Boyd had in the bar are not in the truck, and nor are they tailing them in a follow car. He decides this is a Good Thing and tries to focus more on his surroundings, and less on his own imagined end.

He can see the red-light reflection of the speedometer in Boyd’s window, and is dismayed to see that they’re driving on a full tank of gas. There's a pistol resting on the dashboard, sliding with the motions of the car. Boyd seems unconcerned with it.

Tim's been buckled into the seat--more for security than his own safety, he’s sure--yet the bit of worn, polyester strap nonetheless feels like a titanium beam across his chest. 

The only promising feature in this desolate little picture, then, is the fact that Tim’s phone is still in his front jeans pocket. He didn’t lose it in the bar brawl, or even while being dragged to and stuffed inside Boyd’s truck. 

Uncertain just how quickly the mystery substance in his veins will continue to slow his motions, Tim decides he must act quickly. It’s a big production just to swing his arm at Boyd--more specifically, at the steering wheel. He’s surprised he even reaches the thing, let alone gets a firm grip on it. His efforts to steer the car off the road occupy Boyd, and with his free hand Tim wrenches the phone out of his pocket, then tucks it into his jacket sleeve. Knowing better than to risk attempting a text or a phone call just yet, Tim allows his arm to be throw back at him, and silently returns his gaze out the window. Touching his forehead to the glass, Tim feels like he’s receiving an icy kiss. 

“--fucking crazy?” Boyd is snapping at him. “Christ Almighty.”

Tim's eyes droop closed and he fears--and hopes for--sleep.

A buzz against his skin shocks Tim alert; he readies for another bite from the needle, but recognizes it as the vibration of his phone. He forces a cough, slides his thumb across the screen blindly until the buzzing stops. He hopes he’s hit _answer._

“What’r’you doing, Crowder,” he slurs. “Do you not have enough problems… already... that you gone an’ drugged a… shit.” Tim’s head rolls against the window, and he stares out at nothing, waiting in vain for a glowing sign to emerge from the darkness. With an unanticipated jerk, Tim pulls back to find he’s vomited against the window. 

Boyd frowns at the display. “It’s your own fault for drinking like you do, son.”

“Shit,” Tim says again, soft--because a plea for help would not go unnoticed. He wets his lips and, speaking slowly, gives his home address.

“Too late for that,” Boyd informs him. “It’s a one-way stretch for the next little bit.” 

“We goin’ to Harlan?” Tim recognizes the danger he’s already in: drugged, unarmed, in the company of a less-than-upstanding citizen. A trip to Harlan only served to displace him further. Hoping to appeal to Boyd’s shrewd nature--specifically, the fact that he aimed to make his fortunes without drawing the attention of law enforcement--Tim adds, “I got plans tomorrow. Giving a eulogy. People are gonna… gonna know if I ain’t there.”

“That’s nice for you,” Boyd observes. His tone has gone from downright cheerful to spitting. “I identified a body yesterday. Wasn’t given time such to prepare any words.” Boyd stares hard down the stretch of road ahead of them. His knuckles are white on the wheel. “It’s a damn shame. He deserved better.”

Tim doesn’t disagree, necessarily, but any sympathy for Colt was dwarfed in light of Tim’s own loss. 

“You miss your friend?” Tim speaks slowly, tries to focus his thoughts and say the words with the dignity they are owed. “Well I miss mine. Colt killed him on some stupid fuckin’ errand for _you._ ”

Boyd doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “I don’t know nothing about that.”

By sheer force of will, Tim shakes the fog from his mind and continues, "He’d lost her. The whore. Ellen May. She’d _up and disappeared._ She was with Shelby, but Colt got it in his head someone of yours had her, was ransoming her. He ripped off a dealer for the cash. Gunned down a friend of mine in the process.” 

Between stalking Colt’s last days, speaking with the preacher girl, and drowning his sorrows, Tim’s given the course of events a great deal of thought. Even now, with his head rattled and functions stymied, he figures he’s got it right. And, hell, if he doesn’t? Colt isn’t there to set him straight. 

“You kill me,” Tim says, because such an outcome seems likelier with every mile they cover, “You know they won’t put you in a cell with the missus. State’s real particular ‘bout that kind of thing.” 

“I don’t plan on killing you, Deputy,” Boyd flexes his tattooed, white-knuckled hands along the steering wheel. Tim sees a fat, fleshy spider marked with runes. “But plans go awry.” 

“Anything short of seein’ me back to Lexington will land you in prison, I’m afraid.” Tim’s sat straight in the passenger seat, now, having been driven from the window by his own stinking vomit. It’s traveled down the length of the door and started to pool. When he looks at the muted yellow trail transposed on the window and against the dark, he sees an unearthly creature. He closes his eyes and waits for the thing to swallow him up. 

Maybe it’s the look on his face--and Tim can’t _feel_ his face, so he doesn’t know--that gives Boyd a little assurance that his subject will not be so much of the problem he planned for. 

He goads Tim, clearly pleased with himself: "I hate to ruin a surprise, but you're going to assist me in a demonstration."

Tim doesn’t know what that means. He opens his mouth to ask, but feels himself wrench forward again. A gurgle of vomit projects outward, hitting the dash. He slumps back against the seat and hiccups a few more mouthfuls out. The warm, wet mess slides down his throat and stains his shirt front. Tim ties the fact that he can’t so much as force his own mouth closed or move to avoid soiling himself back to Boyd. It’s his scheming that has Tim is a position no better than an infant child, his plans that have somehow expanded to involve Tim-- _a demonstration?_ Tim wonders--and it’s _him,_ the outlaw himself, who Tim hears laughing bemusedly at the sorry sight.

Tim doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t waste any energy trying to grind out a threat or even raise his hand to wipe his face. He still has his phone, concealed. When the nausea passes, Tim occupies himself watching Boyd’s pistol loll around on the dashboard. Tim studies its shape and determines the model. He imagines the weight of it in his hand and sees himself shooting it. 

He doesn’t have to dig deep to conjure up a target.

Boyd is, still, less concerned with the piece than the world beyond it. He slows the truck to a stop, as something catches his eye on the road.

It’s a deer. The creature is stalled at the side of the road, wanting to cross into thicker woods but naturally wary.

Tim mutters an impressed _“Shi-it.”_

Boyd comments, “I’m surprised you don’t see more, as often as you Marshals cross into Harlan territory.”

Tim’s awe isn’t so wholly deserved, however. Boyd grins and jokes, “You must have a better view than me.”

There’s just the one deer, but Tim’s drug-addled mind registers a colossal herd. He counts _warrior-elves-of-Mirkwood_ -level assembly of wildlife. Their numbers go further than Tim can ever see, their eyes bright beams in the perpetual dark. It’s like no Army even Tim has known, standing stalwart and strong, a wall through which there is no passing.

“What did you give me?” Tim asks, still in awe of the vision but certain, too, of its falsehood.

“Some good shit,” Boyd teases. “You ought to relax, enjoy it.”

Tim doesn’t relax. For the first time since being dosed, he finally feels a wealth of energy in his system. He sees this as his chance, his sole opportunity to do more than make a call and pray someone answers. He throws open the passenger side door, vomit streaks and all, and attempts an escape.

Tim only gets so far as part-way out the door; he’s still buckled into place.

“Settle, now!” Boyd’s laughing, which just wills Tim to scramble harder against the seatbelt and door. He throws himself to the earth, managing to slide out of the truck and although he hits the ground--hard--he is up and on uneasy legs. It’s dark and if Boyd so much as turns off his brights, Tim doubts he’d be able to see his own hand in front of his face. But there’s another promise in the darkness, too: concealment. Tim makes for the woods, scattering the thousands of imagined deer in the process. Each step is awkward and uneasy, but Tim gets as far as the treeline before he’s tackled to the ground from behind.

“Off--of--me--!” Tim struggles, but is silenced by a knee pressing down on his throat. His face is crushed into the cold, wet ground. He’s easily manhandled--Boyd flips him on his side and pins one arm down while grasping another. Tim feels the ominous kiss of metal around his wrists.

Boyd hoists him up by the slack between the cuffs. The gesture stresses Tim’s shoulders and arms, but he grits his teeth and keeps silent. 

Boyd lets his face hover just over the earth for a moment before dropping him hard against it. “I’d leave you out here to die, Deputy, if we didn’t otherwise have a pressing engagement.”

“You promise?” Tim spits. He’s bundled back into the truck. 

Even with his hands cuffed, Tim continues to grate against the door when the car starts up again. Boyd just shakes his head. 

“No need to be a hero, son,” he says. “These are peaceful times.” 

Boyd reaches over and--with embarrassing ease--buckles Tim’s seatbelt again. Tim jams his thumb into the device and frees himself. There’s little point to the exercise than to prove he could do it. In retaliation, Boyd stops the car-- _hard_ \--and Tim hits the windshield. 

He sees red before he tastes it, warm and thick, draining from his nostrils and into his mouth. He coughs, sprays the evidence on the dashboard. It’s an ugly, yellow-red Jackson Pollock of a mess.

Tim sits back, defeated. He tries not to look it.

“A demonstration, huh?”

“That’s what I said,” Boyd sighs. Tim figures he’s only succeeding in annoying Boyd Crowder, but in his current condition, considers it a triumph. That Boyd didn’t discover the secreted cell phone in Tim’s jacket sleeve was a goddamn _miracle._

Finally accepting that he can’t overpower his assailant, Tim considers a new strategy. He has to listen and plan for what opportunities might nexxt arise. He doesn’t count himself as having any friends in Harlan County, but he doesn’t exactly have enemies, either. Raylan’s got the latter in droves, yet he’s still clinging to life.

Because he’s finally got the Deputy Marshal stifled, Boyd presumes he has an audience. He starts in with Tim like he’s a willing participant.

"Now, delicate as they are, plans change. Can I trust you with a pistol, if it comes to that?"

“You put a gun in my hands, I’ll kill you.” Tim is too far out of his head to lie. “You, your men, anyone at your back. If it comes to that.”

Boyd thinks he’s being funny. 

“Colt didn’t. I gave him the same choice.”

“He chose wrong.”

“Maybe you can tell him that, yourself.”

Outside, the cement roads disappear, leaving only dirt and gravel. They’re well beyond Lexington, now. Tim thinks they might as well be taking a hard left and off-roading it to the moon, for all the good his hidden cell phone will have with no signal. 

"I'm going to kill you," Tim says, slow and quiet. The throbbing in his head seems to subside in favor of this, a single moment of clarity. "I've just decided." 

Boyd smiles. In the dark of the truck, his wild, white grin hangs from his sharp features like the moon itself. "Well, I can't say that you won't want to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all I have so far. Yea? Nay?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do things go from bad to worse? Because I’m a one-trick pony, that’s why.

Sitting numb against the seat, jacket sleeve damp with spilled sick, Tim finds he has little else to do than tell himself stories.

He knows the road to Harlan is a long one, even if he rarely makes the trip himself. The past week has drawn him in for various reasons--after Colt and under the guise of helping Raylan, in search of a whore with a heart of gold (according to Drew Thompson, anyway)--but at least in those instances, he’d done the driving. He wasn’t some helpless passenger struggling like a toddler against the safety locks. He’d had his sidearm as well as a sniper rifle, no less, and back-up. 

Tim tells himself a story where he just has one of the three. It’s a good story. 

He runs through a few scenarios where maybe he manages to contact someone and escapes his kidnapper without any bloodshed. As expected, they’re not as good. 

Next to him, Boyd is strangely quiet. Tim has never known the outlaw to shut his mouth for anything, such to the extent that Tim imagines Boyd doesn’t fare well in the rain--mouth agape, a regular drowning hazard. Further, Tim can’t imagine what occupies his thoughts if not the kidnapped U.S. Marshal sat in a pool of his own vomit in the passenger seat of Boyd’s truck.

It doesn’t escape Tim's notice that Boyd’s grip hasn’t once loosened on the wheel. He’s angry, but it’s white-hot and seated deep inside him. There’s little at play on the surface, which Tim supposes he has to be thankful for. If Boyd was in a mood to lash out, Tim’s the nearest punching bag.

Tim figures the best time to mouth off is when Boyd’s hands are occupied. 

“This is dumb,” Tim says. His voice is low and scratchy, sunken somewhere further than normal. Even to his own ears, Tim imagines this is what he sounds like, talking in his sleep. “Whatever… you’re thinking, here. It’s so, so dumb. Asinine. I’d say beneath you, but I can’t discount the fantastic arrogance of your white supremacy phase.”

“No,” Boyd agrees sarcastically, “We can’t forgive a man his sins.”

Tim is quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “Is that what this is about?”

Tim decides he wouldn't do this, normally. He wouldn't needle Boyd to talk and then, of all things, _listen._ But this isn't the Boyd Crowder with an answer for everything and a plan rolling off his tongue, this is a man shaken to his core and acting out. Possibly in sync with his unwitting accomplice, Boyd is discovering how unfounded his plans are and is, Tim thinks, disturbed by his own response. Drugging the Deputy--stupid. Assaulting him, later--a mistake. 

But Boyd Crowder has more willpower than Tim knows, and he will see his plans come together with spit and bone-crushing pressure. 

Tim's hopes of shaking Boyd's confidence in a haphazard move are not met. Boyd’s reply is a calculated, heat-seeking missile: “You got any sins for which you’d like to atone?”

Tim squints a little at the road ahead. “Nothing comes to mind,” he says. He lolls his head weakly towards Boyd, and somewhere inside himself Tim hates that he can't summon the strength to be as menacing as the situation calls for. He wants _hardened killer_ , but is only just approaching _kid who falls asleep first at a slumber party._ “And I meant you. This is kind of your show, Hoss.”

Boyd cracks a small smile. He likes to be taken for a showrunner, even if his audience is _literally_ captive. 

“I suppose I am… righting a wrong. You should be so thankful, Deputy, that I’ve included yourself in this righteous enterprise.” 

Tim rolls his eyes, and it’s a mistake; the gesture is an isolated instance of whiplash. “I feel like I’ve been bludgeoned by a door-to-door bible salesman, truth be told.”

“I don’t peddle the good word, anymore,” Boyd says, his expression hardening. 

Tim feels another swell of nausea but tempers it. He’s convinced he can will his body back into order. “Yeah, you’re really living it, now. That whole _do onto others_ thing. I feel it.”

“Unto,” Boyd corrects. Tim stares at him.

“Fuck you. You can’t drug me… and bash my fucking head in… and expect me to remember my Sunday school lessons. _Fuck you, man._ ”

Tim sinks angrily in his seat, accepting with a dull finality just how absurd this entire situation is. Here Tim is, thinking at least-- _at least_ \--he has a handle on his mind--scattered, though it is, and angled towards the unreal. _At least_ he thinks he can see straight. He is less accomplished in the coordinated movement of his limbs, and as a result fears Boyd dosed him with something a little heavier than a muscle relaxer. _Hell,_ he’s afraid of the dosing itself. He feels the pinprick a thousand times over, and finds himself desperate to scratch the point of impact. 

_Crushing immobility, incomprehension, and risk of infection_ \--this is where Tim is at.

And Boyd Crowder finds within himself the gall to correct Tim's speech when Tim himself can't lift his hand such to wipe away the mixture of drool, blood, and sick drying at the corners of his mouth. 

Tim thinks he has it in him to verbally destroy Boyd for the remainder of the drive, but saves his energy. His Army Ranger training kicks in and Tim decides to keep his cool and take stock of his options. He accepts that his earlier attempts at escape were poorly crafted, and born of an unnatural anxiety--something Tim never struggled with before--likely the product of the mystery drug meeting the alcohol in his system. He is of a singular mind, now, to resist exploitation and plan his escape. It’s what his training tells him is the most prudent use of his time. However, Tim’s experience in Kentucky tells him otherwise--Boyd Crowder and his ilk aren’t the terrorist masterminds his training was meant to combat; they’re the assholes on his own side who get a kick out of playing the part. 

To make things easier for himself, Tim goes down the list. Survival--not an issue, as Boyd has already made it clear he plans to _use_ Tim, not execute him. Evasion--complicated by the chemical weakness stalling Tim's every effort. Resistance--this, Tim will practice until his dying breath. Escape--well. That’s the plan. 

\- 

“I’m not getting out of this truck,” Tim announces when they've rolled to a stop just outside of Audrey's. Then, because he’s still embarrassed by the whole _hallucinating a fantastical amount of deer_ thing, he adds, “I probably ain’t even in a truck.”

Boyd’s body is usually so strict--knitted together in snug collars and coats--that when Tim notices him draped along the passenger side opening, he has to take a moment and convince himself of the vision’s genuineness.

Boyd asks, “How sure are you?”

Tim blinks. “How sure am I than I ain’t still in that bar, hallucinating you? Then I’m having a worse night than I thought.” 

Quick as a flash, Boyd brings a hand to Tim’s head, grips a fistful of hair, and slams Tim’s head into the dashboard, breaking his nose.

“You’re in a fucking truck,” Boyd hisses. “ _That was the dashboard._ ”

Tim pulls back, his face hot and bleeding. He turns an inch and spits blood at Boyd. A wet glob catches the outlaw just under the eye. It’s nothing compared to what Tim has smeared over his face and streaming down his shirtfront, but Boyd responds unkindly nonetheless. He yanks Tim by the shoulder and pulls him from the truck. Tim braces himself for the hard fall, takes it on his shoulder and side, and muffles his pained gasp into his chest. He sucks in dirt and the stink of coal, then hacks out a wet cough, spilling still more blood in Harlan County. 

Tim senses others have gathered, and he’ll be damned if a Deputy U.S. Marshal is to lie beaten before an audience. Moving slow, Tim is careful of his cuffed hands and hidden phone as he pushes off the earth and stands. 

_Merciless._ It’s Tim’s first real, lucid impression that _this_ is the Boyd Crowder he’s dealing with. Haphazard drugging and kidnapping plot aside, there’s only his volatile nature. A broken nose is nothing; what has Tim concerned is the _ease_ by which it was delivered, and the fact that it was only Tim’s smart mouth that pushed Boyd over the edge.

Something flashes in Boyd’s eyes. Perhaps he recognizes his mistake, and knows can get away with humiliating the Deputy, not hurting him. Later, Tim might spare his own dignity in the night’s retelling, but he cannot tell tales over a broken nose.

“Deal with this.”

Boyd shoves Tim in the direction of Jimmy, his least-senior but likely most capable of henchmen. In the surprise written across his youthful face, Tim reads an easy mark. 

“He’s out of his fucking mind,” Tim spits as soon as Boyd stalks out of earshot. He stays firm on his feet, not yet allowing Jimmy to lead him away from the truck. He watches Boyd disappear into the building and makes it so that Jimmy watches, too.

“He’s looking out for Ava,” Jimmy says while grasping Tim’s arm.

It’s the first detail Tim’s overheard, and although he keeps his head down and says nothing of it, he thinks Jimmy realizes he’s spoken out of turn. Jimmy jerks Tim forward harder than is necessary, and moves to walk him across the darkened lot.

“You expect me to come quietly?” Tim asks, again grounding his feet in the dirt. He's not being petulant for the fun of it; after the head injury and fall, he needs a moment to collect himself.

Jimmy tugs at him uselessly. “You want to yell for help, go right ahead.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“I got a gun,” Jimmy says.

“I guess that's what I was asking," Tim mutters, and allows himself to be led by the kid. 

They don’t enter Audrey’s from the front. Instead, they circle around towards a small extension. It’s recently built and has a drum-like boiler bolted to its side.

Tim talks as they walk, further slowing Jimmy’s pace. “Kidnapping, assault of a federal officer. That’s a lifetime in prison. I’m not like Raylan, I’ll press fucking charges.” Tim spits another mouthful of blood, this time purposefully aiming _away_ from his captor. “You ready to be swept up in that, kid?”

“Done worse,” Jimmy says. Tim believes it, but only given the kid’s choice of employment. 

Jimmy opens the door to the building and Tim sees that it’s little more than a holding cell with a toilet, sink, and makeshift cot. The walls are bare, just wooden planks nailed together along four support beams. The floor is a concrete slab and the minimal plumbing for both the sink and the toilet are wholly visible. A small light hangs exposed from the ceiling, and Jimmy yanks its chord. 

“You kill people?” Tim asks, seeking to establish a barometer for _”worse.”_ Perhaps wisely, Jimmy doesn’t answer him. Tim adds, like he means to assure Jimmy he’s in similar company, “Hell, _I_ kill people.”

Tim steps into the room willingly. He sits on a small stool positioned between a wall and the sink, leaving Jimmy the cot. It’s far enough away that, if Boyd keeps them waiting and Jimmy chooses to sit, he’ll have to let go of Tim’s arm.

“You got a badge says you can,” Jimmy murmurs, then throws his head over his shoulder. It appears to Tim that this is as far as Boyd’s instructions went, and Jimmy’s at a loss. 

Tim shrugs. He doesn’t think his shoulder is dislocated from the fall out of the truck, but it certainly is sore. “Won’t mean much when that little piece of tin shows up in some slurry.”

“We ain’t--”

“Gonna kill me, so I’ve heard.” Tim looks for Jimmy’s eyes, but the kid won’t meet the stare. Tim feels his nose is still bleeding, and lets it. “This ain’t about Colton Rhodes, is it?”

Jimmy hesitates before answering, “I ain’t supposed to talk to you.”

“And I ain’t supposed to be here. We’re all trying new things.” 

The blood is gushing freely from Tim’s nostrils, and he continues to make no effort to lift his head and stifle its flow. Jimmy, unnerved by the display, searches the dirty cot for something clean. There are a few pairs of women’s panties, a soiled pillow case, a t-shirt. He finds what he believes is a suitable cloth for Tim’s nose, except it’s rock-hard and covered in dried jizz. He discards it and finds another.

“I’ll remember that during your arraignment,” Tim hums. He tilts his head back and watches as Jimmy tries to smother an amused smile. _He’s no hardcase,_ Tim decides. He’s just a dumb kid with nothing better to do.

“You really gonna arrest us after this?”

“You? Yeah. Boyd, I’m going to shoot in the fucking face.” 

“Uh--here.” Tentatively, Jimmy presses the cloth to Tim’s face. It soaks fat and heavy in mere seconds. Tim pulls away, winces, and snorts out more blood. His nose is bent at an unnatural angle, and Jimmy can’t help but feel for the guy. He rinses the cloth in the sink and rings it out, then applies it gently. 

“Can I wash my face?” Tim asks from under the towel. If he looks even half as bad as he smells, Tim knows he could use it.

“I don’t think--for the purpose of--no.”

Boyd wants to make an _impression,_ then.

“You gotta reset it, at least.” he tells Jimmy. Already, the flesh around Tim’s eyes and the bridge of his nose is beginning to darken. “Reset it or I won’t be able to breathe.” 

“I don’t--”

“I can,” Tim says. “Uncuff me. Or just--cuff me in the front.” Tim sways a little on his stool, and it’s not entirely an act. “Do I look like I’m going anywhere?”

Tim must look appropriately pathetic because Jimmy eventually complies. He uncuffs Tim’s left hand, grasps it firm and brings both around, and again secures his prisoner. Tim takes a moment to gather himself, then stands and rolls his shoulders. It’s an entire production, and he looks Jimmy square in his eyes when he presses his palms to either side of his bent nose, and sets it with an ugly snap. 

“Wanna see me do it again?” Tim asks, grinning stupidly through a fresh stream of blood. 

Jimmy winces and turns away in anticipation. Tim thinks he must have had brothers growing up, or something to make the comment land like a threat. Seeing his chance in the kid’s distraction and the sidearm peaking out of his jeans, Tim lurches forward and shoves his unsuspecting captor. Jimmy trips backwards over the cot and Tim falls on him. They scuffle, but Tim is successful in wrenching the pistol away. 

He’s still uneasy on his feet, but holding a gun is second nature. The cuffs don’t disturb his handling of the piece and Tim aims it expertly between Jimmy’s eyes. The poor kid has the gall to look betrayed. 

Tim starts to back into the doorway, but sees Boyd some feet away from the opening. He’s stood statue-still with a gun in one hand, and a working girl by the arm. It’s a bizarre sight but not one, Tim believes, he’s only imagining. 

Tim levels his weapon at Boyd and announces in no uncertain terms, “I’m leaving.”

It’s dark and a night chill has set in. Tim can feel the cold sweat on his brow, knows it’ll soon find dried blood and then run into his lashes and eyes. He doesn’t risk any gesture to clear his line of sight, however, because what he has now--this singular moment of complete control--cannot be put at risk. 

Boyd makes no effort to match Tim, shot-for-shot. He arrived with his glock positioned against the wide-eyed girl, and he keeps it there. He says nothing, but the look he gives Tim is expectant.

Thinking Boyd’s play is hastily procured and little else--what self-proclaimed business man terminates his own product?--Tim snaps, “What the fuck do I care?” 

“My sentiments, exactly.” 

Boyd shoots her. 

The bullet enters one side of her head and exits the other before her open-mouthed scream ever permeates the quiet night air. For Tim, it’s as though he sees the scream being sucked back into her body. He sees it carry the ribbon of blood and brain into the air. The scream kicks her body forward, then collapses her. In the span of a second, she’s ceased to be human, she’s lost all ability to do the utmost human thing: plead and beg and barter for her life. She sinks to the earth and Tim feels himself take on all her dead weight. 

It’s a headshot, clean and simple. That fact doesn’t stop Boyd from emptying his entire clip into her body. Her limp form jerks with each consuming shot, giving false hope that there’s anything left of her to salvage and nurture back to life. 

There’s--a smell. A smell from her broken body and shattered bone that Tim inhales even through his own ailments. It’s got the strength of a small warhead, and Tim imagines feeling the exact moment her death odor collides with his senses. He imagines it breathes through his clothes and shakes the ground he stands on. 

Boyd, his weapon now useless, says to Tim: “I run a goddamn whorehouse, Deputy. I’ve got more.”

Later, Tim will wonder why he didn’t shoot Boyd then and there. 

Tim surrenders his gun. He surrenders himself.

\- 

Tim sits slumped against the little building extension, ass planted on the cold ground, watching the girl’s body bleed out. 

_Merciless,_ he thinks. It’s not necessarily Boyd on his mind.

He learned the lesson once before, and failing to take its meaning to heart has cost a girl her life. 

As much as anything is his choice to do, Tim chooses to sit on the earth and stare grimly at the girl. Her face is round, her arm fleshy where Boyd’s gripped it. Tim sees it’s even starting to bruise. Over the span of an hour, Tim watches in the dull light as her face gets paler and her arm, darker.

He thinks Jimmy is still sat on the cot; at least, Tim didn’t see him leave. 

“She didn’t know what was gonna happen to her,” Tim says aloud. His voice is a low, dull rumble. “She didn’t even struggle.” 

He hears a cough and then the sink running. After a moment Jimmy is behind Tim, nudging him with his boot. Tim stands and looks the young kid square in the eye. 

“ _Done worse,_ ” Tim spits back Jimmy’s words.

“Yeah,” Jimmy confirms weakly. “Was I lying?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any ideas where this should go? I’ve got little beyond “continue ruining Tim’s day.” That could be the plot for anything I write, ever.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your comments and votes of encouragement! Here's Chapter Three, aka _jimmy's jock jams._
> 
> WARNING - Unwanted sexual activity in this chapter. M/M and M/F.

Tim’s intention of escape turns quiet and contemplative. 

"This ain't right," Tim says to Jimmy. He knows he can’t pull another stunt like robbing the kid of his weapon, so he plants seeds of doubt. "This ain't you."

Jimmy yanks at Tim's arm, forcing compliance, but Boyd is far ahead of them and Jimmy is making no concentrated effort to gain ground.

Tim keeps pace as he’s led away from Audrey’s and marched towards the dead patch of earth atop which the whores’ private trailers are kept. They’re not much to look at, but Tim’s happy to be seeing anything at all. He counts how many they pass, notes which are atop wheels and which are little more than tin sheds plopped flat on the earth. He can hear activity in each--the usual moans and groans and slapping of flesh against flesh. 

Tim feels like he's being given a tour, but knows the delay is party to something more practical.

“Ellen May’s?” Jimmy asks. It’s likely the only trailer without a paying customer in it.

“You got a mind for business, all right,” Boyd confirms. “Must be why I keep you around.”

“If not as muscle,” Tim chimes in. Jimmy pays him back for the remark by zip-tying his cuffed hands to a metal beam above Tim’s head in the abandoned trailer. He’s uncomfortably sat on a chair, arms raised. He keeps his left at a more pronounced angle, playing up an injury but in reality, keeping the concealed cell phone from slipping down his jacket and falling to the floor.

Jimmy gives him a hard look, like he's trying to impress upon Tim the necessity of good behavior. Tim doesn't meet his gaze; he knows what they both saw.

Tim’s left alone, but overhears Boyd tell of a call that needs making, and orders Jimmy to wipe down his truck in the meantime. After they’ve gone, Tim picks dully at the zip tie, but nothing comes of his efforts. He doesn't doubt there's a knife or something of use in the room, but there's no getting to it from his current positioning. Looking around, he sighs and lets his head rest against the wall of the abandoned trailer.

Or--he thought it was abandoned. A girl throws open the door and comes in, all dark hair and smudged makeup. She sees Tim trussed up and rolls her eyes.

"You're supposed to wait outside till I'm ready," she snaps, already slipping a pair of panties out from under her cutoff denim skirt. 

"I ain't a customer," Tim grits out. "I'm law enforcement."

"Yeah, you look it," the girl laughs, open-mouthed and crooked-toothed. Then she purses her lips like someone taught her how--practiced, but unnatural. "I've heard that one before." She tosses her hair--another learned move, seeing as her hair was fairly short--then settles herself on Tim's lap.

"I'm not fucking around. Don't touch me." She closes in on him and Tim gets a mouthful of her hair. He spits it out. "You got a phone? Make a call for me. One call. _Please._ I'll pay you--"

“No shit you’ll pay me,” she huffs, grinding down on Tim with some strength and speed, but little skill. Tim thinks she might even be a minor. He jerks his knee up, hoping to knock her loose, but she’s got a leg wrapped tight around his middle. 

“ _One phone call_ \--double your rate--!”

Boyd reenters the trailer, then, eyebrows raised. "Think you can wrap this up? We're on a tight schedule here, Ashley."

"Alice," the girl corrects. "Like _Cooper._ Whatever. He ain't even hard." 

Boyd looks down on Tim, curious. “Why, Deputy, it ain't polite to turn down a pretty girl's attention.”

“Is that how you're gonna kill me? Syphilis?” The words are already out of his mouth before Tim can think to censor himself. Boyd’s already proven he doesn’t have much affinity for the girls in his employ; to disregard them is at best unnecessary, at worst--fatal. 

“Hey!” the girl delivers a swift, unexpected slap across Tim’s face, then grabs herself roughly and snarls, “That’s dignified cunt, right there.” 

She suddenly turns more embarrassed than angry, tears filling her eyes as she pleads to Boyd, “I been taking the pills! I been taking them, Boyd. I swear.”

Boyd doesn't respond right away, and it worries her--and Tim.

“Try again,” Boyd eventually says, nodding towards Tim. Alice understands this as a moment to prove herself, and gives her best effort. She grinds against Tim, forces a hand into his jeans and fondles him through his underpants, kisses his throat, seemingly not minding the dried blood and vomit. She’s a real trooper.

Again, nothing comes of it and she pulls back, shoving Tim’s chest as she steps off him. “What the hell! You a priest or somethin’?” 

Tim, either out of fear for the girl's life or his own, says nothing. There's a line he could give about the drugging, but he doesn't care enough to try. It's _just_ a line, anyway, and by the way Boyd's made himself comfortable in the trailer, Tim thinks he's already been made. 

Boyd’s grinning, wide and wild. “Do I need to get Jimmy back in here?”

There’s a kind of sinister glee to his tone that Tim wants dearly to pummel out of him. As it stands, there’s little he can do towards that goal, so he keeps quiet. He finds a dent in the opposite end of the trailer interior and stares at it. He’s been made a prisoner, but Tim will be damned if he’s made a fool, too.

“Jimmy!” Boyd calls out, then leaves the trailer. Alice climbs over the piles of crumpled clothes, finds a fresh pair of panties and steps into them, effectively closing herself for business. She sits cross legged on the end of the bed, curious. 

"911," Tim says lowly--a final plea to this shaggy-haired girl with the crooked teeth and venereal disease. "Just tell somebody--anybody--that I'm here against my will."

Alice's eyes widen, but she keeps her mouth closed and her head down. 

_Good girl,_ Tim thinks, despite himself. 

Boyd returns with Jimmy following, already sputtering excuses. 

“Boyd, man, I don't--”

Boyd silences his protests with a withering look. Jimmy is still hesitant. "Can she--?"

"Alice, was it?" Boyd speaks a little too loudly. Tim thinks he can feel it in the seat of his chair. "Consummate professional that you are, why don't you freshen up in the bath prior to your evening engagement with our friends on the Lexington City Council, hmm?" Alice looks as though she’s only caught a handful of words out of the lot. Boyd revises, "Might you excuse us for a moment?" 

When she's collected a towel and gone, Jimmy seeks one last affirming nod from Boyd before unbuttoning his jeans and slipping his hand into his pants. 

Tim watches only briefly--just a single second--before lowering his head, understanding. 

"Go on, Jimmy," Tim hears Boyd cajole his man easily, "Impress the Deputy." 

Jimmy, still weakly fondling himself, brushes against Tim like the whore had. Tim steels himself, tries to keep the look of twisting disgust off his face. If he was in control of all his faculties, and not slumped and drooping, muscles warm and tired, body possessed by a chemical fog, he may have pinched off an amused smile or crude remark. Instead, he’s left to only sit awkwardly, his arms still raised and aching, a pawn in whatever insane plot Boyd Crowder’s orchestrated. 

He shoots Boyd--the real trespasser here, in Tim’s eyes--a dull stare. 

"Like you mean it," Boyd crowes, his instruction taking a sharper turn. Jimmy nudges Tim's legs open and angles himself accordingly. He rubs against the Deputy, awkward and forceful, egged on by his shitheel of a boss. Where Alice had unzipped his jeans partway, Jimmy finishes the job. 

Had Tim the energy, he may have spared a sympathetic feeling for the kid being forced to perform. But between willing himself not to respond and imagining the strength in his body necessary to put a stop to Boyd's games, himself, Tim’s exhausted. To his eternal shame and embarrassment, Tim gives up a little. He gives in.

“Whoa--yeah, Boyd. He's, um," Jimmy jumps back and coughs, "Very." 

He wipes the open palm of his intrusive hand down the side of his jeans, although he's felt nothing except for the warmth of Tim's dick.

Tim isn’t looking at either Boyd or his lackey, who Tim believes wouldn’t have so much as breathed on him if Tim hadn’t got the better of him earlier. Instead, Tim’s lost in some blank space between one end of the trailer and the other. It’s a gentle kind of headspace Tim hasn’t visited in a while, but it’s warm and welcoming in all the ways being held captive is not. He thinks about maybe just staying there until this whole ordeal is over and he’s dropped off along some empty stretch of road, having fulfilled whatever twisted purpose for which Boyd has deemed him necessary.

It’s the absence of a plan, but Tim’s training doesn’t discard the notion for not being proactive. _Sit tight_ and _wait it out_ might as well have been medals pinned to his chest, for as often as he did just that and came through in one piece. 

_But no one is looking for me,_ Tim remembers. He doesn’t have the luxury of mentally checking out and waiting for the cavalry to arrive.

He takes one last look around this empty space and pulls himself out of it, because disappearing now could prove dangerous. He is, after all, in the company of men who frequent slurries and mine shafts, and along the way tears through quite the number of acquaintances. 

“Was there a point to that,” Tim asks shortly. His whole body feels tight and strained. He doesn’t dare look at--and confirm--what he feels to be tenting in his jeans.

Boyd cackles, “None whatsoever, Deputy. Just taking a page from our mutual friend Sun Tzu. Know your enemy.” He retrieves a switchblade from his backpocket and prepares to cut the zip tie pinning Tim’s arms above his head. 

“Could just be I like blondes,” Tim muses flatly, but wishes he’d kept his mouth shut when the comment gives Boyd pause. 

“Could be,” Boyd stoops down to meet Tim face-to-face, then grips the Deputy’s thigh. “Do we need to test that hypothesis?” 

Tim, with anger rising in his chest and promise steadying his temper, dares Boyd, “You’re more than welcome to try.”

Boyd cuts the zip tie and doesn’t meet Tim’s gaze. 

“We’re moving.”

-

While being led out of the whore’s trailer and towards the road, Tim comes to the quiet conclusion that Boyd Crowder is insane. Tim thinks about what Jimmy said about Ava, but only knows she was picked up by Harlan PD recently--something about a poorly designed body disposal. Tim thinks Raylan must have mentioned it the morning before he left on his long-overdue suspension (or “forced vacation,” as Raylan affectionately termed it). Tim wracks his brain, but produces no further detail of her arrest. That is, until he studies Boyd.

There’s guilt etched in his brow, remorse twisting his lip, and determination curling his hands into fists. He’s somehow wronged his fiance, but still believes if he acts quickly and with enough force, he can have her back at his side. 

It’s his certainty that makes Tim uneasy. Certainty--more than any desire--can bring a man to dark places. Boyd is convinced he can have what he wants--deserves it, even.

Tim is somewhat relieved when Boyd orders Jimmy to ride in a follow car with Tim, and to _not fuck up this time._ He directs that warning to Tim. 

Tim waits in Jimmy’s vehicle while Jimmy and Boyd discuss their plan’s finer details. From what Tim can see, it involves a lot of gesturing with a glock. He doesn’t have time enough to wrestle his cell phone from its hiding place, so he quickly scans the vehicle for any available weapon. There’s a nudie magazine on the floor-- _Jugs,_ Tim doesn’t need his full mental capabilities to read the cover--a bottle of warmed-over soda on the dashboard, and a pen in the cup holder. Tim takes the pen, secrets it up his sleeve. 

Watching Jimmy and Boyd part ways, Tim finds he’s not alone in the mastering of that particular move. Boyd palmed something into the younger man’s hands--something handheld, but smaller than a gun. It’s disappeared into his jacket pocket by the time he arrives at the car and shoots Tim a warning look before joining him.

“Where are we going?” Tim asks after awkwardly buckling himself in while handcuffed. He keeps his eyes on Jimmy’s hands.

“Noble’s Holler.” Both the answer and the fact that Jimmy actually gives it are surprising. 

“ _Why?_ ” 

Jimmy puts the car into gear. “Neutral ground.” 

Tim guesses it’s about a half-hour drive to Noble’s Holler, by the backroads. Out of the passenger side window, Tim watches the earth swell and hurl into hills, then flatten again. The fields from earlier give way to thick forests--an indication that they’re traveling higher, deeper into Kentucky’s wilderness. There’s a sliver of moon visible, though it’s cut to shreds by eager pines. Its light spreads unevenly through treetops and only serves to aggravate Tim’s head. He closes his eyes against the window, dismayed that in a matter of hours, he hasn’t fully recovered.

Tim’s still pulling together a strategy to raise conversation with Jimmy when the kid himself speaks up.

“Uh, sorry about--about _that._ ”

Tim stares at him. Jimmy has big blue eyes and a wide mouth--the former he’s trying to squint and make smaller, the latter he’s twisted into some invisible line. His hair is a shock of blonde and styled youthfully. He’s got smooth skin and zero razor burn--much, Tim suspects, to his chagrin. He’s probably never had more than three or four hairs parade stupidly on his chin.

Tim runs a few responses through his head--words to make Jimmy feel like a hero, or to feel accountable. There’s an appropriate captor-captive rapport Tim ought to facilitate, but dammit if he can’t stay true to himself. He drawls, “Sorry about not finishing me off or… not finishing me off?”

Jimmy blushes. It spreads across his cheeks then goes straight to the tips of his ears. “Man,” he huffs, startled, “Don’t.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. Jimmy’s _full_ of surprises. “You too, huh?” 

Jimmy looks like he’d rather shit his pants and then finger paint in it than have the rest of this conversation. 

“Man--” 

“Tim,” Tim interrupts what sounds like the start to a grave threat. “My name is Tim. In case you were thinking… Deputy, or prisoner 24601.” 

Jimmy frowns in confusion and takes his eyes off the road for a moment. “What?”

Tim just smirks. “Alright, so you’re not that gay.” 

Jimmy pulls off the road and breaks hard. Ahead of them, Tim can see Boyd’s truck slow to a tentative stop. Tim opens his mouth, a meaningless apology on his lips, but Jimmy is already speaking. He tells Tim in no uncertain terms, “Shut up, man. Shut up or _I will shut you up._ ” 

His hand, Tim sees, is searching for something in his pocket.

“You don’t need to dose me again,” Tim says, his voice suddenly calm and quiet. Jimmy’s eyes are wide and white against the forest of trees at his back. He’s scared, and Tim wishes he had it in him to abuse and manipulate that fear. As it stands, Jimmy is more than capable of doing that to himself. 

Tim’s eyes flit to where Boyd has exited his car and is standing expectantly in the blackened street. Jimmy’s follow; neither wants the outlaw’s company right now.

Jimmy tears back onto the main road. He sticks a hand out of the side window and waves off Boyd. “We’ll see.”

Tim’s gaze returns to the changing treeline. The narrow, sharp tops look like the earth is teething the sky. 

"You know, the consummate professionals _I_ work with don't know about me, neither." 

Jimmy grits out, "There's nothing to know." 

They drive fast over a bridge and Tim catches only the barest glimpse of a creek beneath them. The water is black as the cement road, but somehow he senses its heavy current and undeniable life. 

Tim lobs his head over and forces Jimmy to make eye contact, however briefly. “So, did you miss the cut-off or what?”

Jimmy doesn’t answer right away, but can feel the Deputy’s eyes on him. “What are you on about? More… _prisoner 90210_ bullshit?” 

Tim bites his bottom lip as he smiles. 

“Queer kids these days,” he clarifies. “All they wanna do is get out of their shitty hometowns and make a living in some gentrified utopia.” Then Tim starts to ramble--“They dress their dogs in sweaters and when they adopt a kid put it in the dog’s hand-me-downs”--and only stops when Jimmy delivers a look that screams, _what the fuck is wrong with you_ on levels previously attained only by Rachel Brooks, who Tim thinks must have been born with that expression painted across her face. 

Tim collects himself and asks again, “Did you miss the cut-off? Did you, like me… go to the last place you thought you should be, just to prove you could be there?”

Jimmy nearly veers off the road again--unintentionally, this time.

Tim doesn't give him a moment of much-needed reprieve; he knows Noble's Holler is just over the next hill, so he continues, undeterred, “Straight outta high school, I joined the _U_ nited States Armed _For_ ces.” Tim punctuates each word like one of the more vile drill sergeants did in bootcamp--something particular and personal that maybe Jimmy understood, nonetheless. “Became an Army Ranger and sniper.” Tim lifts his cuffed hands to scratch his nose, a kind of wordless expression of how far he's fallen in rank.

He knows a captive audience when he sees one, petrified and silent. Tim even has a story prepared for him--something terrible and great, love amidst the battlefield of war, all that shit. But what spills out of Tim next--unexpected, like the vomit and so much blood--is his own story. Short, and true.

"For ten years, I wasn’t thinking about having sex with the guy next to me. I was thinking about how to keep both our sorry asses alive.” Tim catches Jimmy staring. “And maybe, if I did, he might just love me for it.”

Tim uses his middle finger to slowly draw the pen out from his jacket sleeve. He works the cap off and thumbs the tip; it’s not very sharp. That doesn’t mean he _can’t_ force it into Jimmy’s carotid artery, it just means it’ll hurt more.

“But that’s just me.” Tim blinks tiredly and stares at Boyd Crowder’s halted taillights a short ways up the road. “And we were just hunting and killing people for a living. I’m sure you’re much harder than that, sellin’ dope and wrangling prostitutes and all.”

Tim waits for that one to land. When Jimmy’s grip slackens some on the wheel and his gaze falls somewhere along the dashboard, Tim knows he has him. 

They stop just short of Boyd’s truck. 

Tim unbuckles himself, figuring he’ll need the leverage if he wants to do this right. He imagines exactly how it will play out: sticking Jimmy and pushing him out of the car, then taking the wheel and driving as straight as he can for as long as he can. It’s no master plan by any stretch, but Tim can make a couple calls, get the Staties involved, maybe even clear out Audrey’s before Boyd can wreck any havoc on the girls. There are a lot of variables and the timetable is fucked, but Tim know if he stops to really think it through, he won’t taste freedom--not now, maybe not ever.

Jimmy grips Tim’s shoulder. The touch is unexpected and Tim instinctively leans away from it, expecting another needlestick.

But Jimmy’s eyes are still so wide, his expression suddenly so open, and his hands--empty. 

“Just do as you're told, okay? This is almost over.” Jimmy wets his lips and searches Tim’s face for something--trust, maybe, or just a fear equal to his own. He fumbles the syringe from his pocket and empties the dose into thin air. The liquid sinks into the upholstery and and needle is discarded in back. “Just do as Boyd says and--and I will drive you home. Or anywhere you want to go. And--I’m sorry.” 

Jimmy-- _Tolan,_ Tim finally remembers his last name, once mentioned in a file on Crowder--says again, “I’m sorry,” and his grip tightens. “I’m not--” he starts, but falters. Tim readies himself with the pen. 

“I’m not a killer,” Jimmy finishes lamely. 

As far as admissions go, Tim supposes that’s a blanket one worth hearing. And then, there’s what he is no longer denying.

“Fine,” Tim mutters. He secures the pen back up his sleeve and wrestles with the door, then lets himself out. He bounces the back of his head off the car, aggravated that he’d been so easily swayed. _“I won’t kill you.”_

Jimmy doesn’t hear him. He turns off the engine and pockets his keys, then circles around the car and joins Tim. He hands the Deputy a bottle of water after taking a drink, himself. Tim drinks his fill and then, instead of passing it back, throws the bottle on the ground.

“Man,” Jimmy frowns. “You don’t gotta be a dick.”

“Yeah,” Tim rattles his cuffed hands. “ _Where are my manners?_ ” 

Jimmy stoops to pick up the plastic bottle, then idly brushes off the dirt. “I don’t believe your story, by the way.” In a tone so hushed and endearing, Tim could picture it coming out of the mouth of a cartoon deer, he whispers, “Ten years? I think about cock _all the time._ ”

Tim huffs a stilted laugh. “Yeah? You’re young.”

“I ain’t so young.” Jimmy says.

There’s some light and activity spotting up the hill to Noble’s Holler, and Tim figures he will soon be summoned. “Yeah, guess not. You gotta be eighteen or older to rent a motel room.” Tim shoots Jimmy a knowing look. “ _Anywhere I want to go?_ You’re about as subtle as a fucking ocean. In the desert.”

The color drains from Jimmy’s face and he stutters helplessly, ”No, I meant like--your car? Where it's parked? If you wanted to go back… to your car.” 

Tim smirks and thinks to himself, _There’s that ocean again._

A heavy figure makes its descent down the hill. Even from afar, it’s clearly not Boyd. A hand is waved and Jimmy sucks in a breath through his nose. His grip returns to Tim’s shoulder, but it’s not like before.

“Just--follow Boyd’s lead. And, um? Bleed more?”

The hulking figure is Limehouse himself--Tim recognizes the hat and hears the absurdist chuckle, even at a distance. He’s wearing gloves up to his elbows, and there’s blood strewn across his smock. He doesn’t have either the cleaver or the pig he was butchering with it in hand, but the odor is strong. 

“Deputy,” he greets, surprise coloring his tone. He looks tim up-and-down, assessing the damage. The twist in his lip reads as weary--Boyd had paid him off in exchange for space to arrange a meeting between himself and Sheriff Mooney. He hadn’t said a damn word about involving a Federal. 

They march up the hill--Jimmy still gripping Tim’s arm like he expected the man to orchestrate an escape, even though they walked in tandem. Limehouse led the way, veering off from the main path towards houses and the expansive farm area, and instead directing Tim and Jimmy towards the butcher’s barn. They enter, and Limehouse locks the door behind them.

Enormous slabs of meat hung from the ceiling on great, steel hooks. Entire bodies of hogs are cut down the middle, boasting mirror images of muscle and bone. Some are soaking up a sweet marinade, others are still bleeding out. Tim feels his shoes step into thick pools of blood, still warm. 

The bodies are concentrated towards the front of the barn, where as Tim finds himself being led to the back. The odor is dizzying.

Tim is sat on a small stool towards the far wall, against the doors to an in-house refrigeration unit. He looks to Jimmy, expecting to see assurance, but the kid has his back turned. Tim is told to wait, but he doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy telling himself he’s fucked up.

The back doors close and lock. Tim remains seated; it’s the best position from which to marvel at his own soft-hearted stupidity.

He stares blankly down the neat rows of swine. All of them are slick and dripping, and the floor is saturated by blood and juices. Tim sinks his boots into it. He thinks how this could have just as easily been Jimmy’s blood, pooling in the driver’s side of the car. He could be punching the gas now, not pressing his footprint into ground fed by viscera and spilled entrails. 

A cold sets in. Intellectually, Tim knows its from the refrigeration unit, but he imagines it starting in his chest and spreading to the backs of his eyes and every hair follicle, traveling through his muscle and settling just below the skin. The cold is an ailment he feels not only physically, but mentally.

The unused pen is a rod of ice against the flesh of his wrist. The anger and confusion that colored this bizarre night’s start are now lost to this unsettling turns towards… _fear,_ Tim presumes, although he remains uncertain. It’s been a while. 

He sighs, and the odor touches his tongue and the backs of his teeth. It makes his eyes water. 

Limehouse returns only a few minutes later, alone, save for a plastic white container in his hands. He drops it in Tim’s lap. 

“This is some hoodoo-voodoo white people bullshit,” Limehouse announces to the room at large. Tim raises a speculative brow. “By which I mean, Deputy, I ain’t party to this.”

Tim opens the container to reveal a hastily-made pulled pork sandwich. It’s a kind gesture, Tim supposes, but the atmosphere of the butcher’s barn doesn’t much lend itself to fine dining.

“Mr. Limehouse,” Tim says tiredly, “On the long list of people whose lives I’m gonna fuck up after this, yours is nearer the bottom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this wasn't going to be a long thing AT ALL but now it might become a kind of AU start to season 5, No Crowes Allowed? Stay tuned. I may yet talk myself out of it. :P


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tremendous thanks to everyone who is reading! I'm still writing from the seat of my pants, so the comments, too, have been hugely helpful towards the direction of this story. Thanks, all!

Save for the enormous bloody carcases hanging from the ceiling in neat rows, Tim is finally alone in the barn. He sets aside the sandwich Limehouse brought him--untouched--and feels around for the stashed phone. It has traveled to the crook of his elbow, so Tim raises both arms high, and shakes it loose. 

It falls into a slick spot on the floor and Tim scoops it up. The battery is still strong and the light is distractingly bright, even through the thick film of blood. Tim wipes the device on his jeans, then cradles it with both hands.

He knows what he must do and how little time he has to do it, but his digits are like dull stumps against the glassy screen. _Call someone, anyone who will help, no questions asked._

Raylan doesn’t pick up.

“Oh _what the fuck,_ ” Tim hisses after the automated voicemail message. “Answer your goddamn phone, man! Boyd Crowder has taken me on a vision quest. I’m at Noble’s Holler. Limehouse saw me in. I’m in the… the barn, with the slaughtered pigs.” Tim’s gaze settles on something in the room he had not noticed before: on the half of the barn that is outfitted with actual cement flooring, there is a drain fixed in its center. Stood over it is not a string of hogs, but a single chair. “Oh, fuck. They’re going to kill me.” 

With an even tone and steady realization, Tim ends the call, "So, you know. If you get a minute." 

Tim wipes a hand over his face and notices he’s trembling. He calls Rachel, but gets two rings and the dropped signal for his trouble. Tim supposes he only reached Raylan for the same reason he called at all: Raylan is closer. As far as Tim knows, Raylan took his suspension and a convenience store six-pack and disappeared to Arlo’s empty house. 

Tim tries Raylan again, but the holds the phone too close and smears hog blood at the corner of his mouth. An unwitting taste makes him gag. He’s suddenly very conscious of the chemical stench in the air, the viscous substances on wet floor soaking through the hems of his jeans, and the fact that he just might die here. 

The door behind him is unlocked and opened; Tim is quick to pocket the phone and ready the pen. He tells himself, _You can kill these people. So do it._

Boyd enters first. 

“Deputy. Up. _Up._ Over to that chair. Sit.”

Tim doesn’t see it, but he can tell Boyd has a gun pulled on him. He just sounds so _pleased_ with himself.

Jimmy appears, but hurries towards the front of the bar without so much as a second look at Tim.

Tim moves slowly. His jeans are wet with blood and viscera and whatever else he was sat in. Boyd prods him in the back with the nozzle of his pistol, then drops a hand on Tim’s shoulder once he’s sat in the chair over the drain.

"You don't say a word," Boyd tells him lowly. "That's how you get out alive." 

“I think the burden of _my staying alive_ rests with the fella holding the gun.” 

“Jimmy didn’t dose you like he was meant to,” Boyd says. It’s said easily, like a polite observation. He squeezes Tim’s shoulder. “Making this look real? That rests with you, now.”

“Making what--”

At the head of the barn, the lights are turned off. Tim senses Boyd’s departure, but is certain the man hasn’t gone far. Tim sits patiently, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. 

_“Not. One. Word.”_

The warning is whispered from behind. Tim jerks a shoulder like he feels breath on his ear, but knows he’s only imagining things. 

The door far ahead of Tim is finally opened, and a lone figure enters. He steps cautiously. 

“Crowder?” A man’s voice calls out. The figure sighs, aggravated, and mutters, “Fuckin’ theatrics.” He produces a flashlight. 

The strong beam of light searches the barn side-to-side, illuminating the pale bodies of pigs before finally landing on Tim. From the light’s source, Tim can just make out the man’s face, and the star on his chest. It’s acting Sheriff Mooney. 

It’s the fucking _Sheriff_ of this shitty _county_ where lawman can be drugged and kidnapped and paraded around like someone’s prized pig--and who knows after that? Strung up and bled?

Tim thinks, _fuck Boyd Crowder._

"Hey," he says, cool as he can manage. 

Suddenly, the lights are back on.

Boyd steps up behind Tim and accosts him with his pistol--the butt of the thing slamming hard against the side of Tim’s face--then grabs Tim by the arm and throws him with some force to the ground ahead of Mooney. Tim knows it's the drugs and alcohol limiting his coordination, but he still feels like an assholle for hitting the dirt. 

"The fuck is this?" Mooney asks, not sounding particularly impressed. He clicks off his flashlight and returns it to his belt. In better light, Tim can see he’s dressed in his Sheriff’s uniform. He strikes Tim as the kind who doesn’t take it off during sex, much less for clandestine meetings with known outlaws. This is very much a jeans and identity-obscuring-hooded-sweatshirt affair. He points at Tim. “The fuck is that?”

"Why, this is a Deputy U.S. Marshal!” Boyd answers cheerfully, like he’s sharing a particularly novel item at show-and-tell. Then his tone changes, turns menacing and dark and worst of all--assured. “And I got no qualms about putting a bullet through his head." 

Boyd lets that hang there, for the both of them. Then, he delivers a swift kick to Tim’s side. Tim bites back a groan, but can’t help but curl inward. He feels the wet floor soaking into his shirtfront.

Mooney looks Tim over, deciding fairly quickly that the guy hasn’t had an easy time of things. Last he saw of the Deputy, he was standing dead-eyed over the body of one of Boyd’s men. There had been bloodsplatter crisscrossing his shirt. 

Boyd continues, "Now, his only crime was robbing me of a friendship. _You_ have taken my fiance from me. I want you to know what you've stepped into, Sheriff.”

He kicks Tim again, and again, and then steps fully on Tim’s side. Tim feels the cool metal lip of the pistol touch his forehead, sweet as a kiss.

“You’re going to kill him?” Mooney asks, still unimpressed and--worse--seemingly disinterested. He’s at least a little smug when he says, “I took his badge number three days ago, Boyd. I can report this. I can bring every officer in the state down on your ass.”

 _Report this,_ not _stop this,_ Tim thinks. The acting Harlan County Sheriff is operating under the assumption that Boyd _will_ kill Tim--and in doing so, giving his tacit permission. 

“I'm only going to kill him if the lesson here escapes you,” Boyd continues, undeterred. Tim supposes he has that to be thankful for: Boyd won’t be bullied. "That lesson being, I've had him in my care for two of the last three days, and I don’t hear any sirens. Do you?” 

Mooney looks at Tim for confirmation. Tim nods to save his life. 

There's no leverage to lift himself up and nod appropriately; this gesture is simply him grating his cheek against the filthy cement floor. It's humiliating. It's something Tim will remember when his hands are uncuffed.

“Ava’s in processing,” Mooney says. “Best I can do is keep her local, not send her upstate.” 

“Now, Sheriff, I know you can do better than that.” Boyd’s tone is sickly sweet. He pulls back his weapon and cocks it, then steadies his aim. Tim doesn’t flinch, but he can hear his heart pounding like a pair of fists in his chest. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done--trusting that Boyd Crowder won’t shoot him in the fucking face. 

Mooney’s gaze settles on Tim. He misreads Tim’s anger and distrust as naked fear, and is satisfied.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says, then turns and leaves.

To Tim, whose view is primarily feet and the under bellies of hog carcases, it's a fairly anticlimactic end. 

Boyd hauls Tim up, and lets the Deputy settle on his knees. 

“That was very illuminating,” Boyd allows. Tim thinks he must be playing at some next level shit because all he heard was a man mildly perturbed. He can’t help but feel indignant.

“He was gonna let you kill me,” Tim huffs. His entire right side is slick with spilled blood. He reeks. 

“That he was, Deputy. He’s a bigger coward than I thought.” 

Jimmy appears. Tim realizes he was tasked with operating the lights, and has a crack ready about the production value for this little show of force, but Jimmy is quick to speak: “I’ll take ‘em.”

Sensing his freedom is near, Tim starts to rise, but Boyd levels his pistol at him and Tim stills. Boyd stares hard at him, his expression contemplative. There are ideas in his head that Tim can read in the narrowing of his eyes--as if the firearm wasn’t explicit enough. 

“We can’t kill him,” Jimmy says, desperate. He was slow to catch on but is there now, and jumping leagues ahead. “Boyd, no. Mooney would know and you heard what he said. Every cop in the state would be here. You’d be dead or in prison, not helping Ava either way.”

“I could surrender myself to her crimes,” Boyd says. He sounds distant and quiet in a way that Tim finds disconcerting. It’s as though he loses any semblance of his personhood when Ava is on his mind. 

“You don’t gotta kill him for that,” Jimmy whispers. His eyes flit to Tim; he’s genuinely concerned about keeping his promise.

Boyd is glassy-eyed and sure of himself when he says, “They’d listen to what I had to say, if I did.”

There's no disputing that.

“They’d shoot you on sight,” Tim says, breaking the uneasy silence following Boyd's homicidal plotting. It’s the first thing he’s contributed to the discussion. There’s a very narrow window for what he ought to be saying, now, but he can’t bring himself to beg.

Because he’s studied his share of deranged killers, Tim susses out Boyd’s thinking, and means to tear great gaping holes through it. 

“You’re thinking about firing a shot anyway,” Tim says. “Mooney’d hear it. Maybe disappear me for a time, file a missing person’s report. Make him think you’re good for your word.” Even with the pistol pointed between his eyes, Tim stands to his full height. As he moves, the gun moves with him. Tim challenges, “But then what? I turn up some days later and Mooney knows you’re full of shit. Either you got through to him just now, or you can’t.” 

Tim can’t _loom_ \--never could--but he makes himself imposing in the one way he knows how: he stares Boyd down, dead-eyed and unafraid. He delivers his threats as mild as they come, serving them up like a fucking _cheese plate._ “You kill a federal officer and it’s over, Crowder. No more hillbilly antics. No more technicalities. And Raylan ain’t on your side, he’s on mine. You’re _done._ ” 

Boyd chuckles. It's a near-mechanical sound, grating and unnatural. “The way you tell it, Deputy, I’ve doomed myself anyway, just having you here.”

“You’ve doomed yourself a little," Tim allows.

Boyd fires his weapon. The bullet lodges itself in one of the hog carcases. 

"Shit!" Jimmy exclaims. Tim says nothing. He doesn't realize how much stock he's put in Jimmy's simplistic rescue plan until now, seeing stark shock and dismay color the kid's face and posture. When Jimmy turns to face him, his expression is pleading. 

But he's not expecting Tim to salvage the night and emerge with some plan.

He's asking for forgiveness. 

Boyd takes Tim by the arm. “I’ll think about it.”

It's still pitch-black in the back of the barn. Boyd leads Tim into it. 

\- 

Tim only gets into Boyd's truck because he thinks there may be a chance that Boyd will see reason. If Tim proves himself to be a handful, he may yet trip Boyd's hair-trigger temper, and meet his end, anyway. 

Of course, he knows the alternative is that he’s a lamb being led to slaughter. A _well-behaved lamb,_ at that. And that’s just not Tim’s style.

“You want my honest opinion?” Tim asks as they pull away from Noble’s Holler. Jimmy’s in the rearview mirror for a time, but his hangdog look does little for Tim. 

“I do not,” Boyd answers. 

Tim tells him anyway: “You could have asked Raylan. He’d have done it, and worst you’d come out is owing him a favor.”

“Knowing Raylan, that favor would have been my surrender.”

“No,” Tim disagrees. “Nope. Because you two got that thing.”

Boyd’s eyes narrow. “What _thing?_ ”

“Where you two dug coal together.” Tim sort of smiles, because the way Raylan ever says it is absurd. Tim always pictured it like they started while still in diapers, rutting around in a sandbox, upturning dirt with plastic red shovels. Then Tim, feeling exhausted, traumatized, and hurt, laughs. “You fucked up, Crowder.” 

Tim thinks about being driven into the middle of nowhere and killed. He laughs some more. “Is there anything else I can do you for?”

Boyd shrugs and checks his mirrors; no one’s following. No one _would._ “Can you speak Spanish?”

Tim stares at him. He’s dismayed to see that Boyd has his shirt buttoned to the throat and his jacket collar turned up. If Tim means to stick him in the artery and bleed him like a pig, there will have to be a struggle. Most struggles Tim is familiar with, a gun goes off. 

Problem is, he isn’t the one with the gun. 

He has four years of high school Spanish under his belt, plus what he picked up from a buddy in the service. And while sharing this might prolong his lifespan, Tim won’t do it. Surviving isn’t the only goal, here; Tim cannot stand to aid Boyd in any further capacity.

 _Te vistes como un condón humano,_ Tim thinks to himself, but says nothing.

He’s driven down the same road for a time, but they turn left instead of right, missing the exit for Audrey’s. Tim watches a new set of trees and hills roll by, black on black against a starless sky. He feels a twinge of disappointment before realizing it’s cloud cover, and perhaps not so much the deafening sign he took it for. 

They stop in the middle of a dirt road. There’s field on Tim’s side, and he looks out over the grass and sees no houses, livestock, or fences. Just tall, tall grass. 

He climbs out of the car and breathes in wet-smelling air. It’s a welcome balm after the stink of slaughtered hogs and gunshot. He thinks it should rejuvenate him and bring a new clarity to his situation, but it’s almost dizzying. 

Briefly, Tim entertains the notion that he’ll be left in this field to find his own way home--or not--but realizes, worryingly, that Crowder is stalled in the car, and is watching him. The wind picks up and Tim knows a storm is coming. He wonders how well he could run, if heavy rains proved a strong enough distraction.

He starts to circle the car, hoping there’s woods on the other side, but suddenly Boyd is out of the truck and stood in his path, pistol readied to blow Tim away.

“Walk.”

The grass is about waist-high and when the wind carries through it, seems to hum. Tim finds himself stepping carefully, not plodding through and breaking the fine stalks of wild growth. Clearing a direct path to his body is not chief on his mind. He hears Boyd stop and does the same. They’re not far from the road and the parked truck, and Tim can see his luck going either way, right now.

Tim speaks with his back to Boyd. “So all this… you just wanted to intimidate Mooney?”

“I have to protect Ava.”

"You don’t think not including her in your crime spree would have covered that?”

It's the wrong thing to say, but Boyd can't pretend he hasn't thought that exact thing, himself. “You don’t understand. It’s a different life for us, here. We don’t have the luxury of choices.”

“Yeah, it’s hard out here for a pimp.” Tim turns so Boyd can hear his accusations face-to-face. “You wanna talk about choices, how about--” 

Boyd leaps forward and pistol whips Tim again, putting enough force into it that Tim loses his balance and hits the earth. The grass is soft and, Tim thinks, a good enough place as any to rest.

Boyd stalks back to the car, angry. He forges a path where Tim didn't want to leave one, if only in the hopes that there wouldn't be a body needing recovery in the first place. Boyd entertains no such notions. He turns again on Tim and snaps, “Where did I get the _grossly mistaken_ impression you didn’t say much?”

“Your plan was weak from the start,” Tim spits. He stays low to the ground. Where the previous blow to his face only left him with a headache and ruined pride, this one breaks the skin. His brow feels hot and he wants to bury it into the cold ground, maybe stay the bleeding and fill the gaping head wound.

From his sideways position amidst the tall grass, Tim finds himself staring at Boyd. He sees long legs silhouetted against the headlights from the truck. Boyd's hands are stuffed into his pockets and the pose reminds Tim of how cold it is. The shadows obliterating the particular features of his face are as black as his hair. There’s nothing for Tim to study and exploit, no visible wrinkle of hesitance or lingering doubt. He's buttoned up to the throat and his head is turned, lifted. He’s not even _bothered_ with Tim, and in realizing this… Tim grows concerned.

Tim wriggles forward and finally gets a look at what’s beyond the truck. There’s forest, deep and thick and Tim knows if he can just _get to it,_ he can survive. 

He looks at Boyd again, and sees that the outlaw’s head is cocked to one side, like he's listening to some voice Tim can't hear. He nods in solemn confirmation. 

Tim thinks of all manner of things to say--about Crowder’s diminishing ranks, his fiance in lock-up. He thinks through a long game of stirring Boyd up and calming him down. He worries there's not enough time. 

Then he thinks about Mark. It's unintentional, but somehow unavoidable. Tim wonders if maybe this is how it was supposed to be, always. He thinks that maybe they both died a little in Kandahar, and Kentucky is where their bodies will finally drop. Tim has always felt a little like a zombie, in that respect. 

But still, Tim thinks he ought to say something--he ought to try. He opens his mouth and finds he cannot summon the breath from his lungs. It’s stalled, and Tim is quiet and resigned for long enough that maybe they've both forgotten about him.

“What’s the matter?” Tim finally asks. His voice is flat, barely heard over the roar of the wind through the grass. “Can’t decide how you’d like it done?” Tim sits up to his knees. “Do I get a say? The apricot… would be appropriate.” He stands, because he thinks whoever finds his body will _know_ if he was. Standing, kneeling--they'll know if he gave up or not. “Uncuff my hands and I’ll point it out for you.” 

There’s a final option, Tim decides. He could rush Boyd, wrestle his cuffed hands around Boyd’s throat and use what the man himself has given him. Tim's never choked the life out of a person before but he thinks plainly, _I bet I could._

“Would you kill me, given the chance?” Boyd suddenly asks. It’s as if he can read Tim’s mind. 

“Absolutely,” Tim says, and takes a cautious step towards Boyd. “But that goes for most of the assholes I know, so don't go thinking you're something special.”

Boyd smiles--and that, even in the oppressive dark, Tim can certainly see. “You kill a lot of men in the war, Deputy?”

“A healthy sum.” Another step.

“And women?”

“Some.” Another.

“And children?”

“We called them men, but. They were children.” Tim doesn’t stall; he now finds himself having halved the distance between himself and Boyd. It’s still not as close as he’d like to ensure Boyd doesn’t have time to shoot, but Tim can chance it. 

The heavily clouded sky finally bursts open and its starts to rain. Boyd breaks his focus away from Tim and stares upwards, as if personally affronted by the change. 

“Son,” he says, and squares his pistol at Tim, center mass. "You disappoint me. Here I am, thinking I could do some damage." 

Rain falls in great, fat droplets on the hood of the car. Boyd pushes off from it and returns to the driver’s side. He enters, brushes the rain from his shoulders, and fiddles with the radio. 

Tim stands for a long time, thinking about running. He could circle around the back of the truck, make a long shot for the treeline. He’d be an easy target for a couple of meters, even with the rain. But there’s no difference in elevation between the road and the field, and Tim figures if Boyd misses a shot, he could just as easily mow Tim down. 

Inside the cab of the truck, Boyd leans over and opens the door on Tim's side. 

“You’ll catch your death out there,” he says. 

Soaking wet and out of options, Tim joins him.

They don’t drive for much longer before Tim begins to recognize the landscape. It wasn’t so long ago that he was eyeballing each hill and slope for Theo Tonin’s errand boys, only to discover them in the skies. 

Boyd slows to a stop in the driveway of Arlo’s house--now Raylan’s. Tim says nothing. He can't believe it. 

Boyd honks twice before leading Tim, at gunpoint, out of the truck.

They wait in the yard until Raylan emerges, still in his sleep clothes but holding his own firearm. He looks down at Tim, bewildered, although it seems he isn’t surprised that Boyd is party to this.

“I was going to kill him,” Boyd announces. “But he’s your problem, now.”

Boyd uncuffs Tim, who doesn’t waste a second before tackling Boyd to the wet earth and sending a barrage of punches into his face. Tim’s fists taste flesh and blood and he doesn’t want to stop until Crowder’s just a mess of pulp on Raylan’s front lawn. With every blow that lands--and that is, _every blow_ \--Tim is reminded of how helpless he was made to feel, how scared.

Then Tim remembers the pen. He wrenches it from its hiding place, grips it in his fist and with the other hand, presses Boyd’s face into the dirt. His neck is there, white and open. 

Before he can end Boyd’s life, long, bare arms encircle Tim. It’s Raylan, hauling him off his bloodied captor. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Raylan has to yell to be heard through the rain. “ _Stabbing_ people?”

“He deserves worse than that!” Tim elbows Raylan in the chest and is on top of Boyd again in a second. He gets another hit in before Raylan has him in a choke hold. 

“Arrest him--!” Tim shouts, and continues to struggle against Raylan as they both watch Boyd pick himself up and walk slowly--achingly--to his truck.

“We know where he’s at, Tim.” Raylan doesn’t so much as loosen his grip. “You really fit to deal with this now?”

Tim’s sat with his ass in the mud, being held back from his own homicidal plotting by a man in just his boxers and a tank top. Tim supposes Raylan has a point: he’s soaking wet and is only armed with a bic pen. His head is bleeding and his fists feel like he’s buried them in cut glass. Twenty minutes ago, his primary concern was that he not be found kneeling upon his death.

Tim sags under the weight of the rain. “Can you drive me back to Lexington?”

It’s not something one normally says while in a chokehold. Raylan frees him, and they come apart. 

Raylan, looking for all the world like he can’t yet comprehend what has just occurred in his front yard, provides only a lame excuse: “It’s late.”

"Are you serious?" Tim’s voice cracks. He throws an arm out to indicate--all of it, everything he’d been through only to take him here. “I’ve kind of had a shitty night.” 

“I’ll drive you back in the morning,” Raylan allows. He steps back onto his porch and motions for Tim to follow. “You should get some sleep.”

On the porch there is a swing, light, and an empty flowerpot. Tim deems it necessary to see whether or not the place has changed since he was last here, defending the home. 

The porch is harmless, Tim knows, but he’s had enough of people telling him where to go and what to do. He remains in the rain, staring out from the dark at what is light and welcoming.

“Crowder… gave me something.” Tim rubs at a sore spot on his neck. “Muscle relaxer, maybe. Or something else--I don’t know--like a hallucinogen? I’m not going to sleep.” 

Raylan runs a hand through his hair--still ridiculously long, and wet, and now plastered to much of his forehead. “Food, then. For the hangover.”

Tim gives Raylan a sharp look.

“Just a guess,” Raylan walks the comment back. “He had to get the jump on you somehow, right?”

Tim eventually joins Raylan in the house. It’s well-lit and warm, and Tim is struck by how relieved he is by that fact. He finds the bathroom and washes the blood from his knuckles, the sweat and sick from his face and neck. He gets a good look at his broken nose and bruised eye socket. He takes a leak and then a shower, deciding he doesn’t give a fuck if Raylan minds or not. 

The water is too-warm over his broken face. Tim can feel the soft rise of the flesh around his eye, where Boyd twice pistol-whipped him. The nose is already swelling. Tim stands with his bare back to the showerhead, and allows the water to blast his neck and shoulders. He’s suddenly so tired he can hardly bring himself to wash his aching limbs. 

He forgoes any soap or body wash. He stands motionless until the water at his feet goes from red, to pink, to clear. 

His mind wanders and Tim finds himself thinking about the wide-eyed prostitute at Audrey’s--Alice--who Boyd had sent to take a bath while they occupied her trailer. He wonders if she came across the cold body of her friend along the way. 

The water in the bottom of the tub has been clear for some time, and Tim begins to entertain the idea that the bruises and broken nose could have come from anywhere.

He starts to step back into his filthy, grass- and blood-stained clothes, but can’t bring himself to do it. He secures a towel around his middle and thinks, maybe Raylan has a washer here, or maybe his jeans and shirt are simply beyond saving. 

Tim doesn’t have to consider his options for long. Just outside the bathroom door, Raylan has placed a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a sweatshirt. The jeans are too long and Tim has to roll them up just to keep them from engulfing his feet, but the shirt is a fine fit. It smells and feels old, which Tim appreciates before reading the faded lettering on its front. It’s from Raylan’s high school baseball team and in big block letters it reads, _Harlan County High School._

Tim almost tears the thing off in protest. He hates this place. Harlan. He hates that Raylan didn’t arrest Boyd, or at least let Tim continue beating he ever-living shit out of him. He can’t see the name of this place and not picture himself against the window of Boyd’s truck, drooling and mumbling and stupid, or beaten down and afraid. Or alone.

The sweatshirt, at least, is from Glynco. 

Tim wanders into the kitchen and drops into the nearest chair. On the table is a small spread of whatever Raylan last picked up from a general store. There’s a peanut butter and jelly sandwich sat neatly on a paper plate for Tim.

Like the porchlight, shower, and clean clothes before it, a sandwich handcrafted by Raylan Givens is not something Tim ever thought would factor into this night. 

When he sits, Tim is practically folded in on himself. He’s angry, tired, sickened and humiliated. He eats his sandwich with utter disdain for every fibre of himself that works to bite, chew, and digest the meal. 

Raylan settles in with a pint of ice cream and is only two spoonfuls in before speaking. “So. Gonna tell me about your night?”

Tim takes an angry bite of his PB&J. It’s no easy task, but he pulls it off. “Check your fuckin’ messages.”

Raylan looks genuinely surprised at that. “You didn’t call me, Tim.” 

Wrenching his own phone from his pocket and scouring through the list of recent calls, Tim discovers he’d actually called Mark, left _Mark_ some insane voicemail about slaughtered hogs and imminent death. 

_The phone’s probably in evidence,_ Tim tells himself. _Battery’s probably dead._

He sighs and discards the sandwich. “So I didn’t.” 

Something… happens across Tim’s face. In Raylan’s estimate, there’s not much to emote from that isn’t swollen or bruised. It happens in his eyes and the slight twisting of his lip. He doesn’t know the particulars of Tim’s night, so he has no reason to think Tim is beating himself up because, for the past several hours, he’d almost entirely forgotten about his friend. His friend, who he’d been drinking in the memory of. His friend, who he was just starting to miss.

“Shit." Tim drops his head into his hands. "Please drive me back. Mark’s funeral’s in the morning.”

“Who’s Mark?”

“My friend,” Tim murmurs. “He’s dead now.” Because he buries the palms of his hands into his eye sockets, he doesn’t see the pitying look Raylan gives him. He does, however, feel the man’s hand drop gently on his shoulder.

“Keep eating. We’ll leave in ten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole the set up from one of my favorite lines in the show--3x01. Tim asks Raylan if he’ll help getting Duffy to talk. “You two got that thing…” “What thing?” “Where you two killed Gary together.” I just love it. Tim, u lil shit.


	5. Chapter 5

Tim has his soiled clothes in a plastic grocery bag. In his too-big borrowed jeans and sweats he looks--and feels--like the kid who wet himself at a slumber party and had to leave early. 

They duck out into the rain again, then pile into Raylan’s town car. Raylan has a small duffle comparable to Tim’s sorry plastic bag. Tim guesses by the give of the duffle, there's little more inside than a change of clothes and a toothbrush. Raylan doesn't intend to make the impressive round trip in one night, and Tim can't blame him.

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

Tim shakes his head, _No._

“That bad, huh?”

Tim shakes his head again, _No. Worse._

Raylan squints at him like he's trying to figure something out, or at least issue a ballpark guess. “You wanna talk to Rachel?”

 _Swing and a miss,_ Tim thinks. He has to bite his lip from saying what's really on his mind: _I don’t want to talk to anybody, least of all you. You’re on his side._

He turns his gaze out the rain-spotted window and asks dryly, "Crowder drag her to your doorstep, too? Or would you give a shit, then?"

Inside the sleeve of his sweatshirt, Tim has hidden a knife stolen from Raylan’s kitchen. It’s still sticky with peanut butter, but it’s the best Tim could manage in lieu of swiping one of Arlo’s shotguns. He knows Raylan is better armed--and a fine shot--but this has little to do with safety, and everything to do with finishing what he started. Tim presses the pad of his index finger into the knife’s serrated point. He doesn’t stop until he feels the smallest warmth of blood, and only then pulls back. 

He looks at Raylan, angry and expectant. “Why didn’t you let me kill him?”

Raylan rolls his eyes and says, “Fuck, Tim. I don’t know. Something in me just said, _Raylan, do not let this kid commit murder right here on your front lawn._ Holy spirit, must have been.”

Tim runs a hand through his hair. It’s still wet from the shower, but doesn’t feel clean. “He killed a girl. Boyd did. We can… put him away for that.”

“Local PD can try,” Raylan says. 

Tim hears the lack of confidence Raylan presses into his response, and challenges immediately: _“I saw it.”_

Raylan just shakes his head. He may not have had the roundabout trip through Harlan County like Tim did, this night, but he knows the place. He knows its players, and he knows getting played. “What are the chances that body will ever be found, Tim?”

Tim remains silent. Frustrated, Raylan reminds him: “ _We_ are not the police.”

“Are _we_ not the good guys, though?”

It’s the only conversation they have for the entire drive, and it begins and ends before they even cross the distance of Raylan’s dirt driveway. 

\- 

They arrive at Tim's place around 4am. Raylan falls asleep on Tim's couch, eyes drifting closed to the sounds of Tim tearing out of borrowed clothes and taking another shower. Tim falls asleep for a time, too, but is nonetheless awake and dressed and making coffee before Raylan stirs six hours later. 

Tim has wrapped his knuckles. Raylan knows because he almost mistook the clean white bandages for the cuffs of Tim’s shirt sticking out under his military dress blues. He looks sharp in his suit. It’s adorned with his Ranger tab, and various awards and markers, none of which Raylan ever thought to ask about. Arlo could never shut up about his medals, even after he’d pawned them off. 

His face is a mess--all black and blue smudges, painted heavily and indiscriminately across his brow and nose. There’s a deep cut clean across the bridge of his nose, square between his eyes, which Tim seems content to leave alone and let scar. Lesser cuts and scrapes adorn the right side of his face, but are easily lost in the purple bruising. Under both eyes, Tim sports swooping dark bags--either from lack of sleep or yet more abuse, Raylan can’t be sure. It’s a testament to Tim’s sense of formality that he doesn’t appeared bothered by his wounds. Raylan has the vague recollection of a smattering of bruises across Tim’s middle--just a flash of them when Tim stripped upon his return home--but Tim’s movements don’t speak to some tremendous, hidden pain, so Raylan dismisses his visions. 

“You look good,” Raylan says, because even if it’s only about putting on the uniform for Tim, Raylan thinks it’s the kind of thing he ought to be told. 

“Already made coffee,” Tim says. “No need to sweet talk me.” 

Raylan pours himself a cup and then extends it towards Tim, expectant. “Can I bother you for milk?”

Tim fetches the carton, then pulls it back. “Tell me again how good I look.” 

“So it does have a sense of humor,” Raylan grins, and is pleased to note the slight curl of Tim’s lips under his swollen, discolored nose. “Which is best, given how fucked up your face is.” 

“I thought I looked good?”

“From the neck down, you’re really something.” Tim’s smile disappears. He has a military beret in one hand, twisted and wrinkled by his grip. He hasn’t slicked his hair back, yet, so it remains soft and perpetually out of place. From his bruises to his hair to his suit, there is no part of him that looks like himself. 

Raylan doesn’t mean it that way.

He sips his coffee and presses, “You wanna tell me what happened?”

“No time,” Tim says into his own mug. He takes a gulp, swallows audibly. “I ain’t dressed like this for my health. Gotta go get my car, go,” he takes another too-big gulp, pretending like he means to.

“I’ll drive,” Raylan interrupts. “Take your time.”

Because he still feels off--kind of slow and tired in a way coffee can’t help--Tim doesn’t fight him on that. He does issue a stipulation: “We gotta pick somebody up.” 

\- 

Raylan watches from the car as Tim disappears into the Greyhound bus station. He isn’t detained for long, and soon emerges with an elderly man in tow. He’s dressed in an impeccable suit--new, but of a classic cut and design. Ashen gray and accented with a red tie, he looks like an eager politician, except for the fact that he’s pushing 70 and grim-faced. He’s tall, and although he has no cain he carries himself like he is used to having a crutch. Tim notices and takes the man’s arm, but is rebuffed. Even slowly and in pain, the man chooses to walk on his own. 

Raylan guesses they must be familiar, given that Tim made such an attempt. Still, Tim’s expression is unreadable when they reach the car. 

“John Coleman,” Tim introduces, “Raylan Givens.” 

They exchanged brief pleasantries after Tim assists John into the back seat.

Tim tells Raylan how to get to the cemetery, then wastes very little time before addressing the father of his deceased friend plainly, if a little callously: “What did the police tell you about how it happened?”

“Nothing surprising," John says, fixing Tim with an unwavering focus. His body may be failing him, but his eyes are bright and strong. He doesn’t even wear glasses. "Figured _you_ might know more than you've let on. The whole story, Timothy. Let’s hear it.”

Tim’s eyes flit to Raylan, but only briefly. In allowing Raylan to overhear what happened to Mark--and, by extension, Colton Rhodes--he’s only getting a jump start on explaining why Boyd targeted him for his threat to Sheriff Mooney. He sets his gaze on the road ahead and speaks clearly: “He called and asked that I meet him at the VA. I thought he was using again, but he’d just gone to a meeting. He wanted someone to go with him, sort out some things with his old dealer. We, uh, did that. Figured a… payment plan. I saw him back to his place. Couple days later I get a text from him he doesn’t answer back, and a call the next morning from Lexington PD. Mark’s dealer was gunned down and robbed. Mark got caught up in it.” 

John huffs, indignant. “His dealer, huh? So he was getting high again.”

“I don’t know that,” Tim insists. “The text. He was lucid enough to tip me off to the guy who did it. He’s dead now, too.”

“Timothy,” John admonishes. Raylan thinks he somehow sounds like a pastor, speaking a grown man’s name like a child’s. 

“There was just cause,” Tim says. Either he’s ignoring the use of his given name or he’s used to it, from John. “He pulled on me.”

John shakes his head slowly. “You know that’s not fair.” 

Tim shrugs. “Well. That’s it. Fair or not, the whole story.”

“I know you don’t believe in heaven or hell none, but this will be hard to live with. God willing, it will.” For Raylan, that seals it--this man is some kind of religious nut, not to be thanking the man who avenged his son’s murder. Raylan looks to Tim for confirmation.

All he sees is Tim making a face: brows furrowed and lips thinned in annoyance. He’s tired of hearing that line. “I believe in hell,” Tim says, just to say it. 

John ignores him and continues the quiet--yet deliberate--character assassination of his son. “You and me both know this was no surprise.” 

“He was going to meetings,” Tim shoots back quickly, and it’s the first instance of being angry since, by Raylan’s count, when he was hauled off of Boyd Crowder.

“He was always going to meetings,” John dismisses. “You always thought too much of him.”

“Yep,” Tim drawls, his tone dry and telling, “ _That’s_ what I was doing.”

Johns hands curl into bony fists, then quickly smooth out over his knees. He turns to Raylan and asks accusingly, “Who’s this?”

“A coworker,” Tim answers before Raylan can get a word in. “He offered to give me a ride ‘cause I’ve been drinking. And I _haven’t_ been going to meetings.” A twisted look on Tim’s face is akin to a smile, but without even the faintest hint of joy. “Hell, my car’s parked at a bar right now.”

John continues issuing thinly veiled aspersions on Tim’s behavior, but Tim never replies and Raylan isn’t even sure he’s listening. The cemetery is almost half an hour outside of Lexington, and when they arrive Raylan rolls to a stop near the main building. Tim sees John out, then stalls, uncertain, before circling the car and addressing Raylan at his window.

“Thanks. You should take off. I’ll call for a taxi back.” 

Raylan shakes his head. “It’s no trouble. I’d like to pay my respects, if that’s okay with you.” 

Tim knows this is just Raylan not being able to leave things alone--and yet, he’s relieved. He looks back over his shoulder towards John, but the elderly man is already making his way towards the visitor center. There's a small stream of veterans filing in from the parking lot, and when Tim finally dons his beret he is lost among them.

“Yeah," he says. "Okay."

\- 

Raylan attends the funeral service, but keeps his distance. He’s not as well-dressed as those gathered, and he feels like coming any closer would label him as a spectator. It’s a chilly afternoon, and Raylan can feel the bite of winter on his bare hands when he pulls them from his coat pockets to adjust the star on his belt. His little bit of hardware is nothing compared to what others are boasting on their chests, but it’s all he has. 

The grass is its perpetual blue-green, rolled like a carpet under the feet of those in attendance. Most are soldiers, Raylan notes, dressed like Tim is dressed. Among the sea of black and blue suits, there is the single figure in ash grey. John Coleman stands closest to a shiny black casket, and stoically accepts a folded American flag. 

After the set ceremony is completed--watching it, Rylan gets the feeling these young men are practiced in the art of memorializing a fallen brother--Tim finds Raylan again. They don’t speak; neither has anything to say, really, to the other. Raylan appreciates the fact that having Tim around affords Raylan the right to be here. He doesn’t attempt to guess what Tim gets out of his company--if there’s any comfort to be had in bridging his old world with his new one, or if Tim simply wants to take himself out of the situation as much as possible. Raylan, dressed like he is, accomplishes that easily.

It’s only later that Raylan wonders if Tim joined him _reluctantly,_ and because none of the other soldiers were speaking to him. 

There’s a small reception held inside the visitor center in the main building, just beyond the cemetery grounds. Everyone walks there, solemn and slow. Inside, it’s crowded, but grows less so as small pockets of Army veterans depart with plans of hitting up an actual bar. Those they leave behind are sucking down iced tea. Tim gets caught among the groups and, being the resident local among so many who have come in from out of state, takes up the task of suggesting bars. He knows of a goodly sum.

A man saddles up to Raylan. He looks like most of those gathered, and in that respect is naturally amused by someone like Raylan, who stands out anywhere he goes. Where the dress code seems to be military blues or funereal black, Raylan especially sticks out in his jeans and stetson. 

“How’d you know him?” the man asks. He’s well-built and sports a thick beard. He’s one of the few in attendance who is not clean-shaven. Raylan joins him in that minority, although his five o'clock shadow does not bear the same intensity and--purpose? Raylan thinks--as three inches of growth. Raylan eyeballs his medals for some signature of Special Forces, but realizes he wouldn't know it if he saw it. 

“Sorry,” the man corrects. “With the rest of us, it’s pretty self-explanatory.”

Raylan tips his hat in acknowledgement; he doesn’t lack total self-awareness. “No apologies needed. I’m actually a friend of a friend. Just thought I’d pay my respects.” It could end there, but Raylan offers up: “Tim Gutterson. You know him?” 

The guy pulls a face--Raylan isn’t sure what to make of it, so he jokes, “Guess I ain’t much of a friend, seeing as I don’t know his rank.”

The guy offers up a strained smile. “Sergeant,” he supplies, then seeks Tim out in the crowd. He sort of sags when he spots Tim standing off to one side amidst a group of his fellow Rangers. “Always sorry to see the ones that can’t handle coming home.”

It’s such an unexpected remark that Raylan very nearly barks out a laugh. “The--face? That’s not normal. I work with him, he’s a good guy. He’s doing good.” 

The man raises an enormous eyebrow. “We did a tour together,” he says while pulling a phone from his uniform pocket, “But I near about didn’t recognize him,” he grimaces, “at the _last_ one of these.”

He shows Raylan a picture on his iPhone--which, with its shattered screen and duck-taped corners, looks like it went to war, too--that Raylan, for a moment, can’t comprehend. It’s certainly Tim’s eyes and nose, but they’re fit into the smiling face of a completely different man. It’s Tim during one of his tours, dressed down in his fatigue bottoms and a sweat-stained t-shirt. He’s carrying more weight, but it’s muscle and suits him well. He’s sitting crosslegged on the desert ground with got one arm around the shoulders of another grinning Ranger, and the other similarly draped over the strong, extended neck of a grizzly-faced goat. And Raylan finally sees what the guy is really showing him: that the Tim Raylan knows is half the man he was, now, and doesn’t smile, not like that. 

“But you say he’s doing good?” the man asks, his tone entirely too light. He’s not making conversation; he’s trying to be polite. He thinks Raylan is a moron for making such lofty claims towards Tim’s well-being. 

Raylan looks at the picture again. “Guess we Deputy U.S. Marshals are a sorry bunch, ‘cause he’s nothing to sneeze at in the office.” 

The man shrugs and collects his drink. Although the mention of Sergeant Gutterson’s change in profession does not go unnoticed, he offers a final observation: “Looks like he did coming out of Ranger School. I guess we all looked like shit, then.” 

\- 

Someone else drives John Coleman back to the Greyhound bus station. Raylan doesn’t know who, but he takes Tim at his word when he appears at his side in the visitor center and says in no uncertain terms, “We can go.” 

The drive is mostly quiet. Tim’s already torn the standard-issue beret off his head and is turning it over in his hands harshly, as if trying to compromise its structure. 

“Wanna get a drink?” Raylan asks when they’re back in the city. 

“Not looking like Stars ‘n Stripes Ken, I don’t.”

When they return to Tim’s small apartment. Tim’s first stop is the bathroom. He strips his jacket and shirt, hanging them with a practiced precision. His trousers are next, their sharp seams matched and neat, ready for the next funeral. He stuffs them all into the garment bag hanging on the door of the bathroom, then crosses the living room in his boxers, undershirt, and black dress socks. He disappears into his bedroom for only a moment, next emerging comfortable in jeans and a flannel pulled on over his snug white undershirt. The transformation takes less than a minute, and Raylan meets him on his couch, a bottle of bourbon and two glasses at the ready. 

And for the first time since Raylan saw his fellow Marshal march handcuffed down his driveway, Tim is finally still. He doesn’t move, doesn’t fidget with a piece of his uniform or prod at his beaten face or attempt to match its ferocity and imprint the wounds on another. 

Then he blinks and his shoulders drop out of their perfect posture. He accepts a drink and says with a severity that outweighs the bourbon, “Thank you.”

After a few drinks, Tim wipes his nose with the arm of his flannel. His breathing turns open-mouthed and raw. He turns his head so Raylan can’t see, but it doesn’t matter--Raylan doesn’t bother to look and confirm what he already knows. 

It's a sorry sight, Raylan decides. Out of deference to Tim, he gives it no more thought than that.

Raylan draws Tim in with a loose arm around the younger man’s shoulders. His grip tightens as Tim starts to shudder. They could be shoulder-to-shoulder, but Tim never gives into the space Raylan is offering. Their contact is minimal--just Raylan's arm, first threaded lightly, now heavy against the back of his neck and punctuating its presence with Raylan's fingers digging into the flesh of Tim's shoulder. They just sit, pressed, Tim with his head down and Raylan staring straight ahead. Tim only moves to force tears off his cheeks with the palms of his hands. He does this exactly four times. It isn’t long before Tim draws back, escaping Raylan's touch, and smears another stream of snot along his forearm. He coughs and swallows another gulp of bourbon. 

“You should go,” Tim says. He sounds choked and raw. His face is still more blue than red, but his eyes and brightly ringed and there’s no part of Raylan that thinks this kid is okay.

 _Back to Harlan?_ Raylan thinks, but raises his glass and says, “And miss all the fun?”

“You missed that last night.” Tim's voice is still rough, and he thinks another sip of bourbon will smooth it out.

“Boyd Crowder couldn’t top this.” 

It wouldn’t be hard, Tim knows, to trade quips and jokes long enough to eventually distance himself from what Raylan’s really doing here, really offering, if not a verbal sparring partner--but he can’t even bring himself to try. If he’s feeling foolish, there’s a way to temper that. 

Tim refills his drink. _A second vision quest,_ he thinks. His hands are shaking and he downs the thing in one go, just to spite the look on Raylan’s face. 

The sadness in Tim’s eyes is quickly replaced by determination. Tim is looking to get blind drunk for the second time in as many days. They finish off the bottle and immediately, Tim is on his feet and looking for more.

“Vodka?” he asks.

Raylan makes a face. _“Why?”_

Tim grins. It's wild, not happy. “Does it matter?” 

Along with a bottle, he also brings with him a simple folding chair from its partial hiding place under the kitchen table. Tim sets it up caddy corner to the couch and takes a seat. It’s as though he doesn’t want to again run the risk of accepting Raylan’s proximity--let alone his offered comfort--if he can help it. 

“It’s two in the afternoon,” is Raylan's half-hearted objection.

“I won't repeat myself.”

It’s not to Raylan’s taste, but he drinks right along with Tim. Soon, Tim grows reluctant to pass the bottle back to Raylan. He keeps it close and drinks from it sparingly; otherwise, he is completely silent and hardly moves.

Raylan frowns and gestures loosely at Tim. “Is this apathy or some high frequency shit I ain't on the level to see?”

“You don't see a frequency, you hear it.”

“Well that about answers that.” Raylan holds his hand out for the bottle. He gets a swig--finally--and puts the bottle to rest on the coffee table, angling it just far enough away that Tim will have to rise from his seat to get it. “So, John Coleman. Kind of an asshole.” Tim doesn’t smile at that like Raylan hopes he will. Raylan continues with a kind of twisted compliment: “Seemed to like you more than his own kid.”

Tim sticks his foot under the coffee table and draws the entire table--and the bottle--closer. He gets his prize without having the leave the comforts of his collapsable chair. He throws back a mouthful. 

“John’s wrong,” Tim says. “Mark was a good guy.” He regrets that last slug of vodka, because it's got him feeling indignant and talkative. “Mark and I did our first two tours together. He was my spotter. We got back and I didn’t have anyplace to go. My father had died, the state took the property. John let me stay at his place in Louisville, with Mark.” Mentally, Tim adds, _Might not have let me if he knew we were fucking since Basic._

There’s a lot of self-editing that comes with being a soldier, or any kind of professional. Even when drunk or among friends, Tim doesn’t stray from what he’s deemed the party line. He continues, "We went through Ranger school together--I finished, he didn’t," and punctuates the failure with another swig.

To Tim, that was the end of it. He wasn’t with Mark when his leg was near about blow off. But Raylan asks, “Then what?” and Tim slowly comes to the realization that even if it wasn’t the Mark he liked to remember, they did cross paths even after Mark’s discharge.

"I didn't see him for a while. Couple years. But the minute I'm back stateside, he calls me up, wants to know how I am and if I need a place to stay.” Tim frowns, because he doesn't remember it being as simple as it sounds, now. “So I came back.” 

Tim doesn't want to say what's next, but given the amount of alcohol in his system, that isn't for him to decide. "And then he disappears on me. His leg was already fucked, a third surgery did it worse than the initial IED, and he was… in so much pain." Tim scrubs his face. "The kind of pain you see a guy in when he's dying, right, except it was just _that,_ for weeks, then months, until he found a quick fix and didn’t know pain anymore. And then he pulled some shit.” The multiple overdose scares, the failed rehab stints. Crashing Tim’s truck, outing Tim to some of their mutual Army buddies, never speaking of it again so they could go on pretending to be friends. There's an entire list, but Tim doesn't think Raylan ought to know. He goes on to explain, lamely, "'Cause he was angry, or high, or whatever. So I left, came here. He didn't call anymore and... He wasn't my problem." 

_Until he calls me up like nothing ever happened, like we hadn't loved each other and he didn't fuck it all up. And the one time I step back in to help him, it all goes to shit. It goes to fucking shit and now he's dead, and Boyd Crowder is huffing exhaust fumes somewhere, laughing about it._

Tim rubs his face again; although he doesn’t speak these words, he worries about somehow giving them away. Raylan’s looking at him, but he can’t figure if it’s because of what he’s said, or that he’s said so much. 

“I don't know what to say, Tim. Ain't a lot of people I consider friends. Most guys I knew growing up either didn't make it out of the mines, or are dead... Some other way. It's strange. Makes you feel like you cheated, somehow, not following that route. Not fucking up so impressively." Raylan smiles, because the alcohol has got him talking, too. "It's lonely."

"Yeah," Tim says. If he ever imagined telling anyone he was lonely, Raylan Givens wouldn't have even made the list. Tim always figured he'd sooner spill his heart to the postman than to Raylan. 

The conversation and the--hug? Tim doesn’t want to think about it. It’s all too much, too fast, and Tim is reminded why he prefers to drink alone, where the worst he can do is give his sob story to a potted plant. Again. 

So he throws back another mouthful and bites out, “But, hey. You’ve still got Boyd Crowder.”

Raylan huffs a laugh and gestures for the bottle, which Tim surrenders. “I’ll always have Boyd.”

Tim closes his eyes, tired. Behind his eyelids he sees it all over again: the dark road out of Lexington, the slaughterhouse, the empty field. What little sleep he got that morning was short and complete, fueled only by exhaustion. He did not dream. Thinking about tonight, Tim worries he won’t be spared.

“He’s fucking insane,” Tim says lowly. “You know that, right?”

“He can be a little highstrung, I’ll admit.” The comment is joking, but Raylan’s expression is hard. Tim thinks he knows--better than Tim, even after last night--what Boyd is capable of when cornered. Raylan’s eyes are clear when he tells Tim, “I’m not, you know. On his side.”

Tim remembers the chokehold and he isn’t so sure. “We’ll see.”

“Always felt above it,” Raylan continues their previous conversation, because Boyd is a different conversation, one requiring clear minds and full faculties. But Raylan’s inching towards drunk, and that’s territory rife with nostalgia. “Felt really good, too. Having that awareness... Like I was forging a path, almost... Exacting it. And the universe seemed to conspire ways to stop me, but nothing stuck. For a long time, I felt like the only man on earth, just... Making my path.”

Tim smirks. Raylan’s a philosophizing drunk. “You don't feel that way anymore?”

“Well. That path is a circle now, ain't it?” Raylan gestures around Tim’s apartment, but his target is much wider. It’s Kentucky. “Universe gets the last laugh.” He shakes his head and grows somber. “And all those guys I knew, all the ones who didn't die in those mines... I'm gonna kill 'em.”

Tim shrugs, thinks, _Is that so bad?_

“You really ain’t gonna tell me what happened last night?” Raylan’s had the afternoon, now, to become curious about Tim’s silence. “Could be worthwhile, maybe. Something for the Crowder file, anyway.”

“If we could leave it at drugging, kidnapping, threatening, and assaulting a federal Marshal, I’d be all for it,” Tim says, giving the short version of his six-hour long ordeal.

“Well shit, Tim. Don’t hold back, now.” Raylan is encouraged by Tim’s disclosure, but the younger Marshal seems reticent to continue. “Come’on. The whole-- _Mark._ That’s a straight line back to Boyd, too.”

Tim gives Raylan a dirty look.

“You shoot anybody?” Raylan decides to ask the obvious--if there’s any holding back from Tim, it must be big.

“No.”

“Then I don’t see a problem.”

“I did beat the ever-living shit out of Crowder.”

“Semantics,” Raylan dismisses. “Could blame it on whatever he dosed you with.” 

Raylan wishes Tim hadn’t taken up a chair and distanced himself from him, because the art of scheming really gets shortchanged when implemented from opposite sides of a room. “Unless there’s something in the fine print, Tim, this is a good get.”

Tim sighs and admits, “I figured Colt must’ve done Mark in at his dealer’s place. I knew that when locals interviewed me, ‘cause of a text he sent. Boyd knows… the connection, there.” 

“You’re clean in that,” Raylan says, remembering that the turnaround between Tim surrendering his weapon and picking up a new one had to be a new office record. Tim maybe went from breakfast to lunch without a weapon on his hip.

Tim picks at the dressing on his knuckles. “It looks bad.”

Raylan is not convinced. “What else?”

“Nothing else,” Tim snaps. “Just something that looks a lot like I planned to murder a dude.” 

Raylan’s been accused of much worse with less evidence. He considers Tim, who has a record of good shootings and commendations on paper, but a tendency to bend the rules when it suits him--or, more often, suits Raylan. It’s because of his history of swaying Tim’s favor that Raylan out-and-out announces his plans: “I don’t know any other way to say this other than, _I’m telling._ He brought you to me, after all. I’ll report it.”

Tim’s face falls. “Fuck you,” he says. “And fuck off.” 

Tim has not forgotten the impression Boyd gave about harming more girls. A report, he knows, will spark an investigation. Even if addressed quietly, visiting the number of locations in Tim’s account will inevitably attract attention and breed gossip. There’s likely not a thing that goes on in Harlan that Boyd doesn’t catch wind of--least of all an on-going federal investigation. Tim can’t risk it.

“I want to bring him in on something, and I want it to stick,” Tim says firmly.

“We all want that.”

“Then why haven’t _we_ done it?” Tim’s tone is accusatory, and it doesn’t go over Raylan’s head that he is the intended target.

In truth, Raylan doesn’t have a good answer for that. Boyd is clever, sure, but he shouldn’t be able to routinely outwit the law.

Tim draws a hand over his face, then winces and thinks better of it. He wants to give Raylan a clearer picture of the ordeal, but refuses to share some choice details. He begins broadly: “It was the kind of thing that… hell. _You_ would have done for him.” 

Raylan frowns. “I would not have let Boyd Crowder break my nose.”

“That’s the assault part I mentioned,” Tim says wryly. “I mean, staging the whole thing, threatening Sheriff Mooney to treat Ava right. That’s straight up your alley.” 

“It seems Boyd didn’t think so,” Raylan remarks. “Else he’d have come knocking on my door.”

Tim looks thoughtful for a moment. “I think he’s headed to Mexico.”

“Come again?”

“He asked if I knew Spanish.”

Raylan smiles, shakes his head. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m serious,” Tim starts slowly. “He’d said his piece to Mooney, and was driving off someplace to put a bullet in the back of my head. We stopped in a field. I was on my knees.” Tim’s mouth twists into something grim. “I wanted to know if there was anything else he was gonna use me for, until he’d used me up. And he asked me, _Do you speak Spanish?_ ” Raylan listens to the story intently, but the doubt his evident on his face. Seeing this, Tim charges: “Wasn’t it you who said you wake up every morning looking to mess up some bad guy’s day?”

“You woke me up this morning.”

“That’s where he’s going,” Tim insists. “You think he’s sensitive to the growing population of Spanish-speakers in Florida? Fuck no. He’s a one-track mind thinking, _Mexico, baby._ ” 

“Maybe he’ll drink the water, save us both the trouble to killing him.”

“Or maybe we intercept him bringing a haul back to the states, land him in prison for the rest of his life, and generate a little goodwill for the office in the meantime.” 

It comes out fast, yet precise. Raylan can tell Tim has been workshopping it in his head. 

“Tim,” he warns, because poorly-conceived plans are _his_ thing, “I can’t. I’m going to Florida.” 

“So that means I’m fucked?” Tim huffs. “Whatever. Rachel will come with me.”

“Rachel wants to be Chief,” Raylan says. “She’s not going to throw away her good standing going on a wild goosechase with you.”

Tim is not deterred. “A solo-op, then. That’s fine. It’ll be just like old times.”

There’s a moment, then, where Raylan looks frustrated and Tim looks pleased. 

“Yeah,” Tim decides aloud. “I’m going to tail him. With or without office approval, though I’d appreciate the vote of confidence.” 

“Stop drinking.” Raylan says, and rises from the couch.

Tim gives him a bemused look. “Uh, nice try. Why not take that show to an AA meeting. Drunks love comedy.”

“I’m driving you to pick up your car, dumbass.” Raylan plucks the half-empty bottle of vodka from the table and trades it for a glass of water in the kitchen. Tim begrudgingly accepts it. “You’re going to sober up and think this through.”

“I’m going to sober up and get my car,” Tim corrects with a smirk, “So I can tail him faster.”

\- 

Instead of the bar Tim patroned the night before, Raylan first drives him to a nearby greasy spoon. Its brick exterior is painted a bright yellow, and the windows are accented with red to match the unlit sign: _Earls_ , no apostrophe, and named for its co-owners, Earl Teedy and Earl Hopper. 

Tim regards the establishment with suspicion. “This isn’t where I parked my car.”

“Come on. All day breakfast.” Raylan sounds encouraging, although that phrase has never served him well before. They take a booth and glance at menus, and order whatever first catches their attention. 

Tim gets called “Sweetie” and “Hun” by the waitress serving black coffee, and Raylan--to his dismay--gets a stern look. She leaves having taken great care to note Tim’s order, but scribbling something resembling _“bacon?”_ for Raylan.

“What’s with the face?” Tim asks, although his attention is elsewhere. He’s taken up the paper placemat and is executing the maze portion like he’s preparing for a tactical strike. 

“Waitress gave me a dirty look,” Raylan answers, dumbfounded. 

“Probably thinks you beat on me.”

“Well flag her down, I need her to know you deserve it.”

It’s not so far-fetched a notion, Raylan realizes as they await their orders. Tim’s swimming in comfortable, over-sized clothes and is obliterating a goddamn placemat wordsearch. Raylan only has 15 years on his fellow Marshal, but somehow the posturing makes him feel older. Raylan knows there’s nothing childish about what’s hidden under Tim’s loose blue flannel: his firearm. He wouldn’t leave his apartment without it. 

They’re well into their meals--Raylan, only after checking his for surprises--before Raylan attempts to head up another conversation. He doesn’t know why it’s so difficult, now, but supposes without the veneer of work, he doesn’t really know where to begin with the younger Marshal. Tim, meanwhile, appears content to continue shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth.

“John is a… what. Preacher? Pastor?”

Tim nods, not specifying which. “Was a televangelist for a while. Actually had this little show in the eighties, filmed out in L.A. Was big in Modesto.” 

Raylan quirks a smile. “That’s the dream, I suppose.”

“Couldn’t hack it against the Billy Grahams and Jerry Falwells, went back to Kentucky to head up a church.” Tim raises a judgmental brow. “He mentioned it at the service.”

Raylan shrugs. “Wasn’t really listening. He sort of lost me after the hellfire and brimstone.”

“It circled back around to Mark, eventually.” Tim pushes his plate away, suddenly having lost his appetite.

\- 

When they pull into the bar, Tim signals for Raylan to slow. At the opposite end of the lot is Tim's SUV, and leaning against its side is a lanky figure. Neither Raylan nor Tim is on high alert for very long; they both recognize the loiterer as the young kid in Boyd's employ. Raylan will be damned if the kid actually has a name, but Tim proves him wrong by shouting it out and startling the guy. 

He spies Tim and is relieved. It's the first time Raylan's seen the whole of him; Raylan wouldn't presume to believe the kid had legs or a left arm, for as often as he's tending bar or playing backup for Boyd. At present, he's advancing towards Tim, his expression open and sincere. 

“You’re here!” He exclaims when the distance of the lot is halved by both parties. Apparently Boyd wasn’t clear on how Tim fared after they parted ways.

His eyes are bright and blue, not squinting in an amateur attempt at _sinister_ , as Raylan best knows them. It's kind of sweet, too, that while Jimmy is cold towards Raylan, Tim's mere presence thrills him. 

Tim, meanwhile, is understandably less impressed by the fact that someone has staked out his vehicle and is waiting for him. His expression is pinched and his posture, stiff. Although that may just be from the beating.

“You dropped this,” Jimmy says, retrieving Tim’s wallet from his jacket pocket and holding it out, expectant, like a dog wanting a pat on the head.

“Did I, now?” Tim drawls. He doesn’t move to take the thing; he just leaves Jimmy there, stupidly holding it out. “Clumsy me, I’m usually more careful when I’m being drugged and kidnapped.” He finally snatches the wallet away. “Where were you in all that, huh?”

Jimmy looks at Raylan and narrows his eyes; he’s not confessing anything in front of this asshole. 

“Don’t look at him, look at me,” Tim instructs forcefully. “You scared of him?”

Jimmy shrugs. 

“I did suckerpunch him in the gut,” Raylan muses. 

Tim’s flipping through his wallet, observing the contents. He’s no longer cuffed and incapacitated and somehow beholden to the young man’s favor, which in Tim’s mind gives him free reign to be a _complete asshole._ When he looks at Jimmy, his expression is ice. “You look in here?”

“I--uh.”

“So you know where I live?” Jimmy’s eyes grow wide. There’s something written across his face that he is quick to suppress, but Raylan nonetheless realizes he is hearing the continuation of a previous conversation. Tim takes a threatening step forward and asks accusingly, “Is that was this is?”

Jimmy holds up his hands. “No, man. It’s… I picked it up out of Boyd’s truck. That’s all.” He tries to placate Tim with a smile--it’s endearingly crooked and out of place. “Lost mine once. It’s a bitch to--”

“This ain’t about waitin’ in line at the DM-fucking-V.” Tim snarls, and suddenly his flannel is pushed back and his hand is on his firearm. “Do you know. Where. I live?”

Jimmy stops smiling. “I’ll--forget it. Forget your address. Forgotten.”

“Tim,” Raylan says, steady and calm. 

“Sorry,” Jimmy says. He’s at a loss. This isn’t the man he met last night, who was so perceptive and understanding, who saw right through Jimmy’s bluff and didn’t use it against him.

Tim is in no mood to be sensitive; he’s tired, bruised, bloody, and sore. He saw his friend put to rest, and couldn’t provide any solace for those gathered in his name. At least officially, the killer is still unknown. To top it off, he’s just had his wallet handed back to him by one of his kidnappers.

“Yeah, you sure looked sorry when you thought Boyd was taking me out to pasture.” Tim barks out a laugh. “Did he tell you that’s literally what he did?”

“I said I’m sorry,” Jimmy insists. He stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and turns to leave. He's parked his truck right next to Tim's, however, and doesn't have far to go. 

“Lay off,” Raylan pitches his voice low, just for Tim to hear. “He likes you.” Raylan registers Tim’s sharp look, but summarily dismisses it. “Nothing. Just weird, is all.”

Tim crams his wallet into his back pocket, then glares at the ground. He’s angry at this kid, angry at Raylan for diffusing the situation when all Tim wants is to blow the whole thing up. He wants Boyd at the epicenter, but doesn’t give a fuck if Jimmy gets caught in the blast zone. 

Tim’s gaze snaps upwards like he’s seen something. A line draws itself between his eyes and at once Tim looks focused and intent, but he’s lost to some faraway place. And he _does_ see something--a target. 

“Hey,” Tim calls out after Jimmy. The kid stops in his tracks, wary but hopeful. “Do you speak Spanish?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra-long chapter because I am making this up as I go and literally have nothing else written! I’m trying to imagine Tim’s plan, and you wonderful readers have given a lot of fantastic ideas towards that end. I'm thinking this story goes to Mexico, but I haven't yet figured out the how...! And of course there need to be some surprises on the way, or else it'll be a couple thousand words on truck stop food and road trip chatter. :P
> 
> Also, holy shit! This chapter marks some 300,000 words of Justified fic written. I sincerely apologize to all.
> 
> ALSO, I may workshop/whine about this story on my tumblr, wellhellolazlo. If you want to avoid potential spoilers, steer clear! (Not much going on in my tumbles, anyway) If you want to voice an opinion or suggestion, come on by!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting, friends! Another long chapter as I work to plot out the rest of the story. This could get very, very long, which with me writing means very tedious. :/

Tim’s face raises a lot of questions in the office. None are immediately asked--Tim gets there early, keeps his head down--but a man can only go without coffee for so long, and around ten he starts to get some serious looks. Raylan is still under suspension, although Tim has no idea if he’s still in Lexington, returned to Harlan, or made good on his promise of Florida. His body more so than his company is what Tim misses--he’s tall and makes for good cover. 

“Tim,” Rachel says, quiet and disappointed. She can see the damage even from her desk.

Tim doesn’t understand that. Why should she be upset when he’s the one who got his face beat in? Because he felt like the flesh of his nose was going to slough off at some point, Tim went to the hospital after ditching Raylan at the bar parking lot. He got two splints for his now-swollen fingers and three stitches between his eyes. _He’s_ the one who should be upset. The three neat, black lines look like a comically-drawn unibrow, and his hand is a perpetual Vulcan salute. 

A red-faced Art calls Rachel into his office, first. He only gets one question off-- _Do you know about this?_ \--before Rachel brings Tim into the Chief’s office herself, and decides Tim ought to answer them both.

It's no profound trek from Tim's desk to Art's office, but Tim feels every step like a mile. He imagines the ginger treatment of his body is because his side is wrapped and sore where Boyd kicked him repeatedly, but knows much of his hesitance is born of the fact that he's still formulating a plan of action, and therefore must curb his answers. Stupidly, he'd spent the rest of his day off in bed, sleeping rather than formalizing his explanation. 

"It's not polite to stare," Tim says easily when they've assembled in the office. He starts in immediately, believing it’ll only reflect poorly on him if he has to be strong-armed into answering their questions. “I had too much to drink, got into a fight with somebody who hadn’t,” Tim shrugs, looks away like this is what’s embarrassing. It helps that it is. He waves his hand, trailing off, “Took it outside…” 

It’s still _technically_ the truth. 

Tim doesn’t meet Rachel’s disbelieving stare or Art’s look of tired resignation. He worries if he does, they’ll see something else in him: the hopefulness that rests at the backs of his half-truths, the will he has that they’ll choose to believe that, drunk or not, he can’t hold his own in a fight. That he isn’t tougher than he looks--something Tim’s worked his entire life to prove. He’s a little disappointed, then, that Art sighs something like, _“Son.”_

Rachel cuts in. She’s not one for pitiful white boys acting like idiots and getting coddled for it. “Can you shoot with that hand?” she asks. This is about the job, to her--always. 

“I will,” Tim answers steadily.

“I asked if you--”

“ _I will._ ”

Art holds his hands out between the two, as if he means to settle the matter himself. But he looks at Tim like he isn’t sure what to say, if he ought to be punished or shamed for his obvious misbehavior, or if he’s had just about enough of that. 

Art decides on the former. “I’d put you on walk-ins, but you’d scare ‘em all off.” 

“Could just point to my face and say, _this is what happens when crime goes unreported._ ”

“You’re alleging a crime, now?” Rachel asks. She doesn’t miss a thing--Tim loves and hates her for it.

“No?” he answers stupidly. 

“Is this because of the shooting?” Art suddenly sounds tired.

“ _No,_ ” Tim says, more forcefully this time, though the excuse is just as unbelievable. Art motions for him to take a seat, but Tim doesn't. 

Art takes his own--heavily, sitting as an audience to Tim like it's some kind of chore--and then excuses Rachel with a promise: “You can have what’s left of him when I’m done.”

Rachel leaves. She doesn't brush their arms against one another like they do sometimes when the trouble is less severe, but nonetheless feels undeserved. She knows he’s lying--he’s got that blank expression on his face--and she is goddamn _angry_ because that look is so commonplace. The door slams behind her, and the office is quiet.

Tim intends to say nothing, and let Art speak and lead himself to his own conclusions. As it stands, Tim has yet to tell a lie. 

“All this from one guy?” Art alleges. 

“He had some friends.”

“Where were yours?”

Tim rolls his eyes and puts a hand over his heart. “Ouch,” he says. 

Art leans back in his chair and studies Tim. He looks past the bruises and stitches and ardent denials, and takes a different approach.

He leans to one side, relaxes. His tone becomes less threatening, but Tim doesn't let his guard down. “You know, my wife didn’t much enjoy hearing about our showdown on the highway.” 

“Shouldn’t have told her,” Tim shrugs.

Art doesn’t raise his voice when he asks, “Is that how you deal with things you know would upset other people? Don’t tell them?”

Tim gestures around the otherwise empty room. “Who is there to tell?”

“You don’t have a girlfriend by now?” Art teases. 

Tim grins a little. They have a running joke in that question--Art asks, and Tim comes up with an absurd excuse. Last time it was, _I would, but she upped her rate. Give me a raise and I’ll bring her ‘round sometime._

Instead, Tim says, “Is that what you brought me in here to ask?”

“No, I’ll put a pin in that.” Art gives a kindly smile. “Doesn’t have to be a girlfriend.” Tim’s gut contorts and twists itself into a knot the size of a chickpea. He doesn't so much as breathe until Art continues, oblivious, “You can tell me, or Rachel, or anybody here--if you’re having some troubles. Because what’d upset us more? Is if this keeps happening.” 

Tim can't relax. He wants to, because Art isn't threatening his job or his privacy, but he's doing something just as dangerous: he's inviting himself in. Tim's social circle extends to a few friends from out of town, regulars at the bars he frequents, and his work colleagues. They don't mingle or overlap; Tim's life works best when each collection remains separate.

“I won’t lose another fight,” Tim says.

But Art doesn’t hear what Tim is promising; he only notes that Tim believes there will be more fights. 

“It’s questionable behavior,” Art says, like it’s final. Tim wants to argue, make a stink about Art not trusting him, but knows there's reason for his boss' cagey response. “And with you coming off a shooting--”

“A good shooting."

“A shooting,” Art repeats, though he's at least glad Tim knows there's a distinction. He picks his office phone off its hook but doesn't punch in the extension right away. “I’m putting you on leave until you speak with the department psychologist.”

Tim balks and objects, “I didn’t have to see her last time!”

“And that’s really come back to bite one of us, wouldn’t you agree?” Art says. “I’ll call her office, see if she has an opening today.”

“Today?”

Art regards Tim with a flat look, like the young Deputy doesn’t understand the gift he’s been given. “Administrative leave could mean a couple of days or a couple of hours. It’s your choice, Tim.” Art doesn’t say anything for a time. He’s giving Tim the opportunity to come clean from his basic storytelling and give an honest answer, but Tim sets his jaw and says nothing. “You have… intimated to me that this isn’t a big deal, that I shouldn’t worry. Don’t prove me wrong.” 

Tim sinks into his chair as Art makes the call and vaguely explains the situation.

"One of my Deputies shot and killed a man. He's not under review for it--it was good, and he knows that. But he's exhibiting some... Behavioral problems."

Tim frowns. Art's explanation makes it sound as though he pulled Rachel's hair and refused to drink his morning coffee. 

"We're short-staffed as it is and I'd prefer not to put him on leave, but his mental health comes first." Art winks at Tim like he’s told some off-color joke, but Tim thinks there’s no joke there, and they both know that perspective is a racket. Then Tim wonders if this is just a ploy to get him to talk and, really, there is no one on the other line. But Art presses on, seemingly without irony. 

"Do you have time to see him today? Fantastic. It's--" Art stops and grins wide, but keeps the amusement out of his voice. "Yes ma'am, that's the one. How'd you guess?" 

“That’s not fucking funny.” Tim says the moment Art hangs up the phone. He’s smarting more than is good for him, and even though his words snatch the smile off Art’s face, Tim regrets saying them. If Art wasn’t concerned, he is now. Tim stalls at the door to Art’s office and challenges, “Do you want to really help me?”

Most days, Art can read his Deputies like billboards--they think they're being innocuous but they might as well spell their issues out in neon lights. For Art, seeing Tim now--alternately dismissing others' concerns while the evidence mars his face--is like trying to decipher a message under layers of graffiti. The inconsistency doesn’t change his response.

“Believe it or not, I do.” Art’s tone is firm, but even-tempered. 

“Good. Remember that.” 

\- 

Tim works quietly at his desk until he gets an e-mail from the psychiatrist confirming a meeting time. He doesn’t reply right away, but when he does, mentions he might be a few minutes late. He won’t be, so when he’s right on time it can be a pleasant surprise and the doctor will believe he’s making an effort, however small. 

Tim deletes the e-mail even before he’s finishes writing it, and replies only with, _OK_. 

He is purposefully five minutes late.

\- 

Dr. Josephine Rodriguez is as Tim remembers her from his last several visits. She’s short and full bodied. Her hair is pulled back into a bun, gray hairs like racing stripes along the top of her head. She looks regal and smart. Although her office is small, she makes space on the walls for all her diplomas. She’s proud of her work, and the display is just as much for herself as those who come to speak with her for the first time, worried they won’t be understood. The walls tell otherwise: she has done _decades_ of understanding. 

Tim knows she used to teach, but returned to her practice after a university shooting took the lives of two of her students. It was written off as a case of mistaken identity, and the police officer guilty of the deed never saw the inside of a courtroom. Tim knew this before meeting with her initially. At the time, he was worried she might treat her job like combing an open minefield, searching for the odd officer rigged to blow. A noble task, Tim believes, so long as _he_ isn’t in her sights. 

He’s seen her a number of times, in large part because his case is deemed ‘special.’ At the moment, he’s the only ex-military Deputy in the office, and as such he’s treated as though his every kill will trigger an episode of PTSD. It’s a different list of talking points prepared for him; no shot is his “first” by any means. He’s not had to see her for his last two shootings, either because he’s convinced Art he’s fine or because Art knows better but plays along, anyway.

Tim drops into his usual chair in her office, then pretends to consult his watch. “And the hour starts… now.”

“Half an hour, actually. Budget cuts.” She clicks her pen and begins with a preface: “Chief Deputy Mullen mentioned some behavioral changes after a recent shooting.”

“The phrase was _behavioral problems,_ ” Tim corrects. “I was in his office when he called. Why’d you guess it was me?”

Dr. Rodriguez is used to this: Tim’s first instinct is to derail the appointment. She ignores him. “Can you tell me about the shooting?”

Tim gives some half-truths--he is sorry about killing a fellow veteran. He didn’t want to have to do it, but Colt had engaged in warfare, out on that stretch of highway. And he was ready to carry out an execution in the tent-church. 

Dr. Rodriguez next asks about the bar, the fight, if Tim went home after, who did he go home to. It’s a whirlwind of questions and Tim worries about giving conflicting reports, because he knows a real one might yet be necessary. 

Of the fight, Tim only says that the other guy started it. 

“And, uh,” There’s no getting around his one, Tim knows. “Deputy Givens drove me home.”

Dr. Rodriguez’s thin eyebrows climb her forehead. “You called him? That shows initiative.”

“He was in the area,” Tim admits. He looks for the clock in the office and is dismayed. 

“What’s on your mind?” the doctor asks, and Tim can hear the sarcasm lacing her tone. He likes that she’s not hiding the fact that Tim’s wasting her time if he’s wasting his. 

“Just the fact that I had a prisoner transport scheduled at one, which means picking up tomorrow morning’s for whoever covered my prime afternoon slot.” Tim smirks and adds, “I guess I’m feeling pretty betrayed.”

“Tell that to my cancelled lunch plans,” she returns. The comment is light and jokingly made, but Tim feels a sudden jolt of inescapable guilt. His problems are not other peoples’ problems--it’s a truth Tim strongly believes in, even if so many others do not.

Dr. Rodriguez consults her notes briefly and asks, “You had asked for the day off yesterday. Why?” 

“Funeral.” Tim wills himself not to look as uncomfortable as he feels, talking about Mark. “Friend of mine, we served together in Afghanistan.” He makes a face of mock surprise. “Do you think… that’s why I was at that bar? Oh, man. What a discovery. Alcohol kills feelings. I have learned a lot here today.” 

“Mr. Gutterson…” She never calls him ‘Deputy’--or _Tim,_ for that matter. She doesn’t build him up with some old-world monicker or attempt to paint their knowing each other as familiar and genuine. She trails off, and Tim reads it as a warning. She’s not in a mood to be trifled with and, Tim thinks, maybe that’s not in his best interests, either. 

“It was a stupid way to miss him,” Tim says of the drinking and fighting, of everything. His tone is quiet, but he’s finally saying something worth hearing. 

“Why do you call your feelings stupid?” 

Tim gestures at his battered face. “The evidence abounds.”

“Were you thinking about your friend at the bar?”

Tim sucks in a breath. “Yeah.”

“Emotion is unconscious thought,” Dr. Rodriguez tells him. “What were you thinking about prior to the fight? Were you angry with your friend?”

“I was angry at myself.” The answer catches Tim off guard--he hears himself say it and feels as betrayed as he did in Ellen May’s trailer, sat under an underage girl with his body failing to disguise his true self. “It isn’t a hypothetical--I could have done more to help him. He was here, he was home. And I was angry at him over some old shit.” Tim shakes his head. “I deserve everything I got. And then some.”

Dr. Rodriguez lets Tim indulge in his self-pity before asking, “Can you share with me… a memory. About your friend, something you treasure.”

Tim’s mind immediately goes to he and Mark rapidly jerking one another off whenever they were alone on base, then to their sleepy mornings in between tours and back stateside. Both their bodies were conditioned to waking early, well before the rest of the world. 

It’s _because_ he so treasures those memories that Tim won’t share them. There’s denialism and a healthy dose of internalized homophobia that goes into such thinking, but Tim doesn’t trade in it for long. He finds something that’s almost as good, if only because Mark made it that way. 

“In our second tour, he was my spotter. We spent four days on a freezing mountain top--too cold even for snow--just looking down into a village for this one dude.” Tim doesn’t give the name--he’s come to learn how to better read an audience, and knows when people will look upon him differently, knowing he hunted a human being. A name makes it that much harder. 

“It was so cold. We thought, let’s sleep in shifts, make sure someone’s always awake to be on the lookout for this guy. The sooner we find him and I put a bullet between his eyes, the sooner we can go.” Tim wets his lips. “It’s unbelievable, how cold it was.” 

Tim revisits the temperature as a way not to discuss what they did about it. When one slept, he sat upright and wrapped in the other’s arms, while the other kept watch. They didn’t sacrifice body heat or halve supplies by setting up elsewhere. They held one another for four days. The best part was, it wasn’t wrong. _“So. Goddamn. Cold.”_

Tim finishes, “It was a good mission. We got our guy.” 

“Why is this a special memory?”

Tim shrugs. “He’d fucked something up on an earlier op, was worried about messing up again. He didn’t. He… was real happy we got the guy. That it all worked out.” Tim smiles, easy and serene. “For us, anyway. We blew that dude’s head off.” 

\- 

Even if he was assigned to walk-ins, none approach. Tim finds he has a mostly undisturbed day at his desk, and uses his time to make some calls and rein in a few favors. In a few hours time, Tim gets word from a State Trooper that a Mexican cartel has put out feelers in Harlan. Or so that’s the conclusion Tim jumps to when two Mexican nationals were illegally stopped and searched on the Interstate. 

“Baseball fans,” the Trooper tells Tim. “Said they just came to visit the Louisville Slugger Museum. They had gift shop t-shirts, so...”

Tim stays late to finalize his plans. 

The last phone call he makes that evening, sometime around ten, is to Raylan. 

“Am I catching you at a bad time?” Tim listens for the background noise--he doesn’t expect to hear waves lapping against some stretch of Florida beach, but he’s nonetheless a little disappointed to register the familiar noises of a crowded bar. 

Raylan doesn’t bother to step away to a quiet corner. “Well, you can’t do worse than one in the morning, so no. Now’s great.”

“ _Sounds_ great.” Looking over his scattered plans, Tim thinks he could use a drink right now. 

“Yeah, no one’s getting drugged or kidnapped. It’s a pretty relaxed scene.” Raylan’s smiling--Tim can tell. “This a courtesy call? Or are you hogtied and need me to come get you?” 

“If it happened twice, I’d start to think I was to blame. And no, I’m just curious--” Tim glances towards Raylan’s empty desk. He can see Winona’s sonogram picture taped to the corner of his computer monitor. “When’s your suspension up?”

\- 

Wrangling Raylan into his plans is hardly difficult--he lives for this shit. Tim suggests that there might be some gunplay and Raylan’s already asking when and where. But there are other points of view Tim needs to consult, and to do so keeps him late in the office the next evening.

It’s this need that makes his steps down the courthouse halls purposeful, but just as well stalls him at his destination.

The door’s open, but Tim stops short of where he could be seen, then takes a breath and steels himself. He takes three efficient steps forward and leans into the doorway. AUSA David Vasquez is staring intently at an open file folder. His hands are to his right, typing away at a sleek laptop. Tim doesn’t know how people come to do that; he’s still pecking at his keyboard and Art continues to threaten him with one of the courses offered at a nearby vocational school. Tim sometimes finds their brochures on his desk. _Learn to type! Anyone can do it!_

Tim knocks on the door panel and inquires, "Sir?" then steps inside and asks, "Got a minute?" 

Vasquez is still typing even as he looks up and acknowledges Tim. “Deputy--sure. Sit--ah. Where you can.”

Tim sits in the only unoccupied chair in Vasquez's office; the others are laden with files and empty carry-out containers. Vasquez continues typing at a speed that gets Tim thinking about Raylan’s quickdraw. When he finishes and pulls away from the screen, he rolls his shoulders and takes off his reading glasses. Tim’s never been in his office before--let alone interrupted his work in this way--but what he’s seeing feels unmistakingly like procedure. 

"Nice digs," Tim says.

Vasquez smiles wryly. "Objection."

Tim likes Vasquez; for all his digging into Raylan's shit, he seems like a straight shooter. Tim is clear on the line of command, but he feels he ought to show the man some respect, and calls him "sir" rather than David or Vasquez. He doubts it's necessary, but Vasquez seems to get a kick out of it, and it hardly requires any effort on Tim's part.

Because it looks like Tim means to stay, Vasquez closes the brief he's working on and regards him curiously. He senses some reluctance in Tim's presence; the young Marshal, in his first few months, was tasked with file delivery and retrieval, which often had him darkening Vasquez's doorway. He never stayed to chat, however. And, coincidence or not, Vasquez has only found himself working closer with the U.S. Marshals since Raylan Givens was transferred in. 

"You're healing up nicely," Vasquez offers--but it's more of a question than an observation. 

Tim smirks, because he can hear the difference. "How'd you hear it happened?"

"Bar fight," Vasquez answers promptly. He narrows his eyes; he's had clients lie to him before, and he knows the tone well. It’s hollow, like the speaker feels a sense of inflated pride at having fooled anyone, ever. He hears it now. "Is that not the case?" 

Tim rises slowly from the chair, leans over the desk, and drops a three page, typed incident report in front of Vasquez. He sits back down heavily. "It was a little more involved," he admits. “I was hoping I could pick your brain on… how to proceed.” 

Interested, Vasquez begins to read the report. His expression twists and hardens, but he never looks up to challenge--or confirm--what he’s reading.

Tim feels alone in the room now, and it gives him an opportunity to obsess over what he’s done, and what he hopes to accomplish. Even after handing over the document--in effect, sealing all that is and can be planned--Tim wonders about what comes next. If Vasquez questions him, does he appeal to a sense of law and order? Of right and wrong? Justice? Does Tim’s badge mean anything to Vasquez, who took a different oath and only just happens to work in the same building? Tim is suddenly worried he went about this in entirely the wrong way. What if, holed away in this stuffy little office, Vasquez wants adventure just as much as Raylan? What if he’s ardently opposed to it, and this office isn’t a cage, it’s a sanctuary? 

Vasquez finishes the document. His expression is tight, but leveled at the words on the page--not at Tim. When he finally lifts his gaze Tim sees beyond the anger and revulsion, and pinpoints the barest spark of excitement. 

Vasquez spits, “That _fucker._ ” 

Tim smiles. _Justice,_ then. 

\- 

It takes three more days of grunt work and two late nights working the legal angle before Tim feels confident enough to, through Vasquez, request an audience with Art and his fellow Marshals. 

Raylan has some idea what’s going on, so he doesn’t grumble and complain about this little meeting interrupting his lunch plans. Tim, with his arms folded indelicately across his chest, drops into a chair beside him. He reminds himself that he asked for this. 

Art and Rachel find their place opposite them at the conference table, and Vasquez remains at the head of the table, but doesn’t sit. Vasquez begins by briefing them all on the incident report Tim submitted to him. Even as questions are leveled at Tim from all sides--Raylan included--Tim keeps quiet and allows Vasquez to finish his spiel. He’s leaving some of the less shining details out and painting with a broad brush to get his point across--even if, in truth, it’s the terrible details in Tim’s ordeal that will win him his audience’s favor. As Vasquez speaks, Tim avoids his colleagues’ stares and tries not to listen. 

“...Deputy Gutterson was then transported by Crowder to an unknown location in Harlan, where Crowder returned to the idea of killing him and leaving the body as a warning for Sheriff Mooney. Crowder _did not_ , obviously, and instead led Deputy Gutterson at gunpoint to the home of Arlo Givens, whereupon Deputy Gutterson was uncuffed and remained in the company of Deputy Givens until the following afternoon. The full report is available, Chief, for your records.”

Vasquez slides it across the table. 

The room remains silent, all words suspended in a kind of muted horror until Raylan pipes up, “Did the sandwich I made him not get a mention?” 

“It was a good sandwich,” Tim agrees. “Can I amend my statement?” 

Art, unlike Raylan, is unable to find any glimmer of humor in the situation. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose-- _has been_ since Vasquez made mention of the murdered prostitute and Tim’s subsequent surrender. “Christ Almighty, son, why didn’t you tell us?” 

Raylan specifies with a nod to Vasquez, “Why did you tell _him?_ ”

Tim says, “Because if what I’m gonna ask of all you doesn’t get OK’d, and we can’t get Boyd on what we really want him for, there’s at least this.”

“And this is certainly something,” Vasquez says, then takes his seat. He’s ready to deal. 

Rachel is the first to bite. “What have you got?” 

Tim doesn’t feel he’s been spared Rachel’s hard stare since earlier in the week when he first showed up, face bruised and movements hindered. And _lying._ Rachel had known that from the start. 

Tim wets his lips. “Mexico,” he starts, and before Raylan can roll his eyes Tim mentions the sighting by the State Trooper. Vasquez backs him up, saying his office can also confirm some meeting took place, and _big-ass drug deal_ was the _topic du jour._

“Is this is even Marshal business?” Art asks. He takes a professorial tone, like he very well knows the answer but wants to hear his students' best take. “Not that I don’t like where this is going, but if we pursue Crowder down Mexico way, how likely are we to run afoul of some DEA or FBI dicks?”

Vasquez looks to Tim, who answers, “My friend in the FBI says it isn’t on anybody’s radar. Her DEA contact said the same.”

Vasquez jumps in, “Thing is, you’ll lose whatever else you have against Crowder, bringing this to them. And _if_ they investigate is anyone’s guess.”

Rachel smells a conspiracy between the two--and Raylan, who is nodding along like he’s being convinced of something he’s never considered before. _Going rogue! What a lark!_ So she turns to her last bastion of reason and remarks coldly, “But to answer your question, Chief, no. It’s not Marshal business.”

“It’s a possibility,” Vasquez allows. Rachel rightly guesses he wants to try the case himself, as evidenced by his rapid fire disregard for reason and sense. 

Rachel presses, “Did you not just say they have nothing? We have _next to nothing._ We have the name of a _country._ ” 

“Maybe I have a C.I. on the inside who’s talking only to me,” Tim mumbles. His arms are still crossed and he’s taken to leaning back in his seat. 

Rachel raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Maybe.”

“Tim--”

Tim grimaces. He feels caught. “I could have had. I think I fucked it up.” 

Raylan grins at him. “Jimmy? Aw, that would have been something.”

“He felt bad for,” Tim waves a hand at his report, “His part in all that.” 

Vasquez, who is the only one besides Tim familiar with the entire ordeal, nods. “He should.”

There’s a beat, and Tim worries such a comment will steer thoughts back to himself, to the questions he left unanswered and those generated by Vasquez’s softened telling of the night’s events. 

“There is something here,” Tim insists, now turning to Art. He keeps his tone level and precise. This is an argument to be _won,_ not merely to be had. “We just gotta be there when it comes time to reach out and take it.” Tim unfolds his arms only to wave one loosely, at a loss. “Hell. Maybe we’re looking for someone else along the border.” 

“Maybe,” Vasquez starts carefully, “We keep it simple. You’re looking for Crowder.” With all eyes on him, Vasquez makes his case: “If Deputy Gutterson presses charges, my office can issue a warrant for Crowder’s arrest. And, in the process of serving it…” 

“We stumble upon a mountain of cocaine,” Tim supplies, and jokes to Art, “Happens every day, boss.”

“You’d hold a warrant that long?” Rachel asks, skeptical.

Vasquez looks affronted. “Uh, no. That’ll land on your office. It’s your choice to operate in a timely manner. But, if you can ballpark your time frame, I can wait a few days. A week, tops.” 

Raylan shrugs, amenable to the idea. “Warrants get misplaced all the time."

Vasquez gives him a warning look, and in any other instance might have pressed that point. Instead, he goes on to speak to the plan workshopped between Tim and himself. Rachel doesn't like it; the plan hinges on little besides tailing Boyd across the country, and waiting out his criminal exchange in Mexico, then accosting him after he's crossed back into the United States. It's all luck and circumstance cobbled together under an inappropriate label. Even when the legality of a tracking device is jockeyed around the room, Rachel feels there’s an eagerness that surpasses merit. 

Art is likewise underwhelmed. "You cooked this up?" It’s still Tim who faces the burden of convincing his fellow Marshals that there is a seed of an idea, here. 

"I think it’s worth a shot," Tim says, and suddenly his temper gets the best of him: "You know I do, else I wouldn't have staged this elaborate shitsh-- _production_." 

"That isn't what I asked," Art says, then sighs. “I think you got knocked around the head one too many times."

“So three would have been enough?” Tim asks flatly. “Three good ones?”

Art sets his jaw. He's used to these antics from Raylan, and wonders if they’re born of some kind of contagious mania, spread only by lengthy run-ins with Boyd Crowder. They ought to have that guy tested. “How much are you playing this up?”

“Not as much as you think,” Vasquez interrupts on Tim’s behalf. Tim’s gaze remains on Art, sort of blunted and unhappy.

“Tell him you got a Marshal stiffy,” Raylan goads. “Better than your word, a Marshal stiffy."

"I got one," Tim says, dryly. "I looked down at it and it did this to my eye."

The discussion stops there, peters out like the last clouds of a storm, stretched too thin with nothing left to give. 

“Well, hell,” Art says. He’s grinning now, and slowly coming around to this wild idea. “Who knows? Maybe it won’t be a complete misappropriation of Marshal resources and, ultimately, a massive embarrassment to this office.”

Raylan claps Art’s shoulder appreciatively. “That’s the spirit.”

\- 

It’s a nondescript little bar just short of downtown. There are other ones--better lit, with more affable crowds and fewer health code violations--but Rachel isn’t in the market for ambiance or company. She wants a drink.

The only flaw in her plan, then, is that she has the gall to want a drink while being a beautiful woman. Company, wanted or not, tries to make her acquaintance. 

She dispatches of the first two with nary a word--just a look like ice to dampen their hopes. It’s almost a shame--the second man to offer her a drink in exchange for her company was tall and handsome, if a little young. Rachel saw his high top sneakers and knew she couldn’t live with herself if she went home with someone who was probably in diapers when she was begging her parents for a pair of her own--the _first_ time they were in style. Rachel’s were cherry red with pristine white laces. 

She orders another drink, because she realizes she still has them in their original shoebox in her closet.

Her third visitor is no such suitor--although, he’s young and reckless and Rachel is secretly a little disappointed he never made a fool of himself vying for that role. 

“Thought it was you.” Tim says. He recognized her sleek ponytail and the way she rolls her shoulders after a long day. He doesn’t bump her shoulder with his own or even take the seat next to her. She’s made no secret of her disapproval of the office’s most recent undertaking, and Tim can respect that and know to be cautious. “Come sit with me. I ordered a burger.”

Rachel’s smile is tight-lipped; there’ll be no anonymous hook-ups tonight. 

“You’re actually eating here?”

Tim shrugs. “One more in a life of terrible decisions--what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Hep A,” Rachel supposes, wrinkling her nose. 

“Aw, that’s the least of my worries.” 

Rachel finishes her beer at the bar and lets Tim buy her a bourbon. 

“You know,” the bartender says, leaning in conspiratorially towards Tim, “You’re the only feller in here the lady’s let buy her a drink.”

“Well I can’t have been the first to ask,” Tim reasons. “Must just be odds.”

“Your lucky day,” the bartender agrees coyly. 

Rachel plucks her drink from the bar. “Not that lucky.” 

They sit in silence in the booth. Some old country song plays over the speakers and both are trying hard to guess it, but it’s so vague-- _women, dogs, loss_ all on some banjo-strung loop--that neither has a clue. But it rolls warm and familiar in their ears, and feels to them both like such easy conversation that, for a time, they don’t bother making any of their own. Rachel nurses her neat bourbon and Tim devours an enormous burger dripping with juices and the occasional pickle slice. 

When the song stops and there’s a lull between it and the next tune, the bar’s patrons fill the silence. They sound like a swell of cicadas, humming and buzzing warmly. 

Tim gestures with the half that’s left and, his mouth full, asks, “You want a sloppy bite?” 

Rachel rolls her eyes, but pinches two potato wedges from the plate. 

Tim swallows and informs her, because he can tell she’s worried, “You know this was my plan, right?” 

She smiles, closed-lipped and sweetly, like she thinks Tim’s precious for thinking that could assuade her fears a lick. “That don’t mean it’s not as reckless as something Raylan would come up with,” she chides. Her Tennessee accent is in full force after just one beer, and the bourbon isn’t cooling it down any. “Or _worse,_ because you always seem to go along with his ideas.”

“They are delightfully madcap and I’m looking to introduce more whimsy into my life,” Tim deadpans. 

“I just wish you’d come to me with,” she gestures at Tim’s face, “ _This._ ” 

“Pretty sure you can still see _this_ from across a crowded room.” The bruising is still dark, especially circling Tim’s eyes. The stitches are out of the bridge of his nose, but the cut still looks open and angry. He continues to field looks in the office and while on prisoner transport duty. Every single convict he drives here-or-there wants the story, wants to know how some lawman got his face so profoundly beat. Tim expends a lot of energy pretending the attention doesn’t bother him, but there’s no use keeping up appearances around Rachel, who knows him well enough to excuse his pride. 

Tim adds, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how it was going to pan out. And Raylan’s been a human pinata before, so I felt a kind of kinship there.” He tries to smile but his expression is caught somewhere between grim and confused. “Plus it’s goddamn embarrassing.”

“I don’t think so,” Rachel says. Her gaze is strong and sure. Tim’s stomach sinks like he’s swallowed a boulder.

He rests his burger on his plate and takes up his pint, instead. “You’ve read the incident report.”

She shrugs a shoulder, guilty but not sorry. “Some incident.”

“Vasquez kept his briefing pretty tame, I’ll admit.” 

Rachel takes another fry, but only to drag it listlessly across the table top. She doesn’t eat it. 

“Listen. I’m not opposed to what you and Raylan are doing. I want Crowder’s ass in jail as much as anyone. I just don’t think any attempt is worth risking the lives of two U.S. Marshals. Two _friends._ ” 

Tim just shakes his head; like Raylan, he’s starting the zone out at the first mention of reason and logic. “We’ve got to catch him on something big,” Tim says. “You know that. Something so flagrantly criminal there’s no throwing it out.”

“Kidnapping a federal officer doesn’t fit the bill?” Rachel snaps. Her tone is short and biting, but like an animal that needs reining in she calms her temper. “I know, okay? I know.” She takes a sip of bourbon and finds herself talking again even before the glass hits the table. “I _also_ know that Crowder was prepared to kill you, all for some stunt to ensure his girlfriend doesn’t get hassled in lock-up.” Rachel is quiet for a moment, looking down into her drink before turning her gaze on Tim and forcing him to meet it. “You and Raylan go in and take away the last shot he has at securing his future with her? He’s not going to stop short, Tim. Of anything.”

Tim blinks first--maybe for the first time in his life. 

“I thought I was gonna die.” His voice is quieter than he thinks is possible to be heard, but Rachel looks rapt. “I haven’t felt that--ever--since coming back here. And it pisses me off.”

Something with a long, moody piano piece starts up and neither speaks for fear of being interrupted by the eventual song lyrics, but they never come. Rachel eventually opens her mouth to speak--because Tim's expression is hard and she doesn't think there'll be anything more out of him beyond a mumbled goodbye--but words fail her, too. The right ones, anyway.

"You know you can die in this line of work, too."

It sounds like a perverse advertisement and Rachel wishes more than anything she could swallow back the words. But Tim doesn't seem fazed by her mistake.

"Naw," he says, sure in his answer. "Not like this. You can get killed, sure. But not executed." 

He picks up his burger and takes another massive bite. Chewing, he tries to lighten the mood. “Anyway. Art’ll fly you in the first whiff of trouble. You’ll save all our sorry asses.”

Rachel, grateful for the change in conversation, huffs a small laugh; Tim isn’t lying. There’s an open-ended ticket in her name to Mexico, ready should things turn sour. “That should be a contingency plan, not the _actual_ plan.” 

They both smile--neither sincerely. Tim's mouth is twisted in a grim little line, like he has more to say but must mull over the _why_ of it all, first. He ultimately decides the _why_ is because Rachel asked, and maybe if he gives her this, she won't ever ask again.

"After… everything, when he had me on my knees in some field? I asked if I could have a say in how it was done. Said I’d like the apricot.” Tim points dead between his eyes, lifting his finger to accommodate the angle between a shooter and his kneeling victim. “Mostly, ‘cause I wanted to tell him to circle ‘round and shoot me in the fucking face. I thought when he got there, he’d pussy out.” Tim downs the rest of his beer. “It’s not hard to shoot a guy in the _back_ of the head.”

Rachel nods like she understands--if not the sentiment itself, then maybe just Tim saying it. She rises from the table and leaves her bourbon unfinished.

“Go home," she says. "Big day tomorrow.” 

She has the bizarre urge to squeeze his shoulder and kiss the top of his head, but doesn't, because it's not the sort of thing they do and she isn't sure if it's something she can bear to start. She steals another fry instead, and inexplicably throws it at Tim's face, hitting the exact place he'd indicated for the shot he'd have wanted to claim his life.

As she departs, she can hear him breathe an unmistakably awed, _"The fuck was that?"_


	7. Chapter 7

On a wet Tuesday afternoon, Boyd Crowder ascends the courthouse steps and enters the offices of the U.S. Marshal Service. His expression is blank but his hands are twitching to curl into defensive fists; he knows he’s entering the lion’s den.

But the order that brought him here came through Ava’s lawyer’s office, and in that respect Boyd cannot avoid the task. It is not in his DNA to abandon her.

In the sprawl of offices and desks, Boyd does not see Raylan. Just beyond where the familiar hat and unimpressed stare ought to be, however, is another face--still cut and bruised from their last meeting. 

Boyd, likewise, is sporting his own scars. As an outlaw, he feels he wears them better. 

“Deputy,” Boyd greets sweetly. 

There’s an edge to his toothy smile Tim doesn’t like, but he knows now is not the time to knock out a few of Boyd’s teeth. He had his chance, and Tim thinks he only managed to loosen a molar or two. He drops his gaze and returns to his paperwork, though he knows the battle for his attention is lost, and Boyd is the victor. 

Boyd rounds Tim’s desk and brings the chair sat on the opposite side with him. He drags the metal legs against the linoleum floor slowly, indulging himself in the grating noise. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Tim grits out. He’s expressionless and sat ramrod straight, and Boyd thinks this is how he’d look if he was interrogated with any gumption. His lip twists slightly--the barest signal of contempt--as he insists: “I don’t know why you’re even here.” 

Boyd stares at him, unconvinced.

“I didn’t make a complaint. I didn’t say anything.”

Whether he’s telling the truth or not, the Deputy sounds miserable--and that’s good enough for Boyd. 

Boyd sits and pats Tim’s knee, then lets his hand linger. It’s shades of the threatening grip Tim knew almost a week earlier, but Tim tries not to let it get to him. 

He tries and fails. 

Tim jerks his knee upward, catching Boyd’s fingers against the underside of his desk. Boyd yanks them back, smarting. 

“Sorry,” Tim drawls, and turns back to his paperwork. “I must have gotten excited.”

Boyd grabs Tim’s chair by the arm and jerks him back to attention. It’s too big a slight to go unnoticed, and Tim supposes Boyd knows that, but is counting on Tim to shrink back and allow it. Part of Tim knows he must meet those expectations in order to keep Boyd ignorant about the Marshals’ plans to run a sting operation on him. Another part of Tim knows the game Boyd’s running isn’t one Tim can risk playing defensively against. Not now, perhaps not ever. 

Boyd lords it over him plainly: “You may want to better contain yourself, Deputy,” he warns, the glee gone from his voice, “Lest I get excited myself, and say something untoward to your Chief about your… proclivities.” 

Tim chews something nonexistent in his mouth. “Your face looks like shit,” he concludes. It’s nothing as biting as he wants, but it satisfies Boyd’s desire to silence Tim on the matter and gets him off the Deputy’s desk all the same.

“Then we’re a matching set.”

While Boyd disappears into the conference room to play audience to some conflicting details of Ava Crowder’s case, a GPS tracker is planted on the rusty underbelly of his truck. Neither takes much time, and by lunch Boyd has driven away and Chris from IT sits down with Rachel, Tim, and Raylan--who arrived late, still under the public guise of his suspension--to explain the tracking software. 

Rachel’s fascination with a moving green dot across a screen is less formidable than her male colleagues’, and she breaks away to confer with Art. The operation still feels flimsy to her, and she makes one final plea to the Chief Deputy about alerting the DEA or other law enforcement agencies.

“I’d imagine you’d be on top of that,” she adds. It’s a small dig, but Art doesn’t miss it.

“That’s why you’ll make a good Chief, Rachel, and they’re pushing me out the door.” Her eyes go wide at that and he laughs it off. “Excuse my bitterness, I do mean that as a compliment.” 

Art offers her a few fingers of what he’s having, and she accepts. If being Chief Deputy _is_ in the cards for her, she wonders how long it will take before she keeps a bottle of the good stuff in her desk, too. Maybe Art will leave her one and save her the trouble of deciding when is the right time. 

The start, it seems. 

Still, she makes sure to sip her portion gingerly. Beyond Tim and Raylan excitedly playing with their new toys, she’s seen a lot she doesn’t like the look of, today. Boyd marching into their offices, proud and unafraid tops the list. He bore the evidence of Tim’s claims, but even a blackened eye and a bruised jaw didn’t keep him from-- _again_ \--intruding on her colleague. Art had clapped Tim on the shoulder afterwards, commended him on playing Boyd so well. Rachel didn’t do the same--she didn’t think Tim was playing, at all. 

She downs the rest of her glass in one gulp; she can’t help it. 

“Besides,” Art continues, and his easy attitude will always confound her, “There's still a chance this won't pan out. Maybe we spend the next week tracking Crowder driving donuts in some parking lot in Harlan, somewhere." 

Rachel imagines herself in Art’s place and doubts she’d be as optimistic. 

-

The morning comes up slow when Tim gets an e-mail alert that Boyd’s car has left Harlan County and is heading towards the interstate. It’s gray out--not dark, and the sun is somewhere making a valiant effort to be seen, but the clouds are fat and heavy with the promise of rain. It’s been a wet autumn, sure to bring a white winter. 

He grabs his go-bag and throws it in his SUV, drives too fast to the office and makes the vehicle switch. A forest green Jeep Patriot with Texas plates is waiting for him. 

The gray starts to rise and dissipate. The sun cuts through the clouds and Tim can feel the day burn at the back of his neck. He texts Art and Rachel that he’s setting out, and picks Raylan up on the way. Tim waits in the bar where a handmade sign reads, _under new management!_ and he wonders just how bitter Raylan is about that, for whatever reason. The new owner is a stern-faced woman in a sharply cut blazer, slacks, and full face of makeup at seven in the morning. When Tim has to tell her he's not actually here to arrest Raylan, her mood worsens. 

"I was told he... Comes with the building." She shudders, like she's just described a rat infestation. Tim grins at that and offers her the coffee he'd brought for Raylan. 

After Raylan eventually makes his way downstairs with his duffle over one shoulder and a toothbrush in his mouth, they set out. Raylan spits out the window and rinses his mouth with Tim’s coffee. Raylan complains about the early hour, then naps until one more to his tastes comes along. 

For all practical purposes, it might be considered a poor start. But Tim’s driving to Mexico, keeping the speed limit, and isn’t buttoned up tight in his office wears. He’s heavily armed and has one hell of a quickdraw at his side, when he’s awake. 

Best of all, Tim’s following the every move of a self-proclaimed outlaw. _Know thy enemy_ is one thing, knowing that he’s pulled into a Dunkin’ Donuts is _everything._

Tim rolls down his window. Even though it’s cold out, the air hits his face warm. Tim loves this shit.

\- 

Raylan’s got good stories. Great ones about his time in Miami and a couple other posts he’s entertained for varying spells. Miami wasn’t his first assignment--too plum a choice--but it was clearly his favorite and held him longest. The fugitives there, it seems, are even squirrlier than those in the Kentucky backwoods. Raylan speaks of them with a kind of fondness, even if the story includes getting stuck with a gut hook and doing some impromptu scuba diving, sans scuba gear. 

They’re stories Raylan has a practiced ease with, and in some ways Tim appreciates that. He’s getting the finished product, the version of the story with perfect pacing and exacting jokes. Tim finds himself smiling wide throughout each story’s telling, and has to consciously twist his expression to keep from looking as enthralled as he is. 

Tim doesn’t think he can spin stories as well as Raylan. Not that he doesn’t have his own, or has had enough practice telling stories to himself, but there’s only so much in a war zone he can deem universally funny. He’s got a one hell of a good sheep pox anecdote, but it’s not one to be squandered in the first four hours of a stakeout. 

That’s what this is, Tim determines. A cross-country stakeout. He has the portable GPS tracker mounted on the dash, with alerts being sent to his phone. It is not, as Raylan terms it, A Road Trip With the Potential for Mass Casualties. (To which Tim replies, “That’s just if we gotta drive through Dallas and take I-35.”) 

They keep several miles behind Boyd’s little convoy. It consists of his truck, Jimmy’s, and one other. Tim and Raylan increase the difference when Boyd takes an unexpected exit, and the Marshals nearly pass him. They cannot run the risk of pulling into the same rest stop, so their breaks must be tiered. Tim, who is driving, gets the hang of it easily. His rule is basically: pulling onto the shoulder to wait out Boyd's stops, but taking no stops of their own. Raylan, of course, wants ice cream every time they pass a sign for a Dairy Queen.

Raylan entertains Tim with a lengthy exposition on his marital problems. Tim listens and makes a wry comment where he can--always at Raylan’s expense, because it’s fun to see that face twist like, _Why you gotta be mean? I’m sharing._

“You could carry the conversation, some,” Raylan says. He looks out the window and in Chattanooga, sees the last of Tennessee. 

“Maybe on the drive back.”

Raylan makes a face. “Shit, forgot about that.” 

“If we get a chance to blow the car in a bitchin’ explosion, we’ll take it,” Tim promises.

“Bitchin’?”

Tim leans forward and pats the dashboard. “Bitchin’ four-wheel drive, bitchin’ AM/FM radio… It deserves nothing less.”

Raylan grins, warming to the idea. “I bet we could swing seats in Business Class, too.” He glances back at Tim’s massive Army green duffle and teases, “Unless you brought your uniform. Get bumped to First.” 

“As U.S. Marshals, we probably have a duty to watch our fugitive. Where’s Crowder in this scenario?”

Raylan shrugs and smiles wryly. “Taken out in the bitchin’ explosion.” 

\- 

Raylan is just entering his second hour of non-stop gaming on his smartphone. Tim can’t differentiate the sound effects anymore--if Raylan is angering birds, crushing candy, or slicing fruits, Tim doesn’t know. It’s just noise, loud in incessant. 

"If you're bored, you could do me a favor."

Raylan doesn’t even look up from his game. "Did I say I was bored? You won't stop for ice cream or let me choose the station. I'm having a blast, what are you talking about?"

 _Again with the goddamn radio station._ Tim likes to listen to the traffic reports, so as to anticipate anything that might slow their travels. Barring that, it’s classic rock and no exceptions. 

"Explain your thing with Crowder. And skip the poetics, I'm driving. Getting misty-eyed could prove fatal."

Raylan puts his phone aside. "There's not much to explain. We--"

" _Dug coal together,_ I know. Everybody knows. It ought to be on the state license plate.”

Because they have time--they have nothing _but_ time--Raylan tries to explain his quasi-friendship with Boyd Crowder. His telling is slow to start, and that in itself is a tremendous departure from all his earlier talking. He never seems quite practiced in explaining Boyd--like the man is here in the Jeep with them, tripping Raylan up. 

Tim is patient, because more so than Raylan’s Miami adventures or marital problems, Boyd Crowder is something he wants to understand fully. It’s a burden to start, because the way Raylan tells it their humble beginnings came under that ridiculous glow of rival clans. Raylan doesn’t recall the particulars--whether the Crowders were against the Givenses for any genuine reason (“Did a Crowder steal your cousin and marry your pig?” Tim asks, helpfully), or if their distance was merely a by-product of something else: the allyship of the Bennetts, maybe. Boyd Crowder was always a presence in his life--Raylan is at least clear about that. Their friendship didn’t extend beyond little league until they entered young adulthood, and from there shared something compelling: a hatred of their fathers. 

Tim gets that. He hears, too, what Raylan doesn’t say even under the guise of speaking plainly. 

_“We were all grown up and still getting beat on by our daddies for talking out of turn.”_

They each came of age already familiar with a father’s abuse. They were old enough that running away felt like surrender, but standing one’s ground meant finding new ways to lie about a broken arm or blackened eye.

“And Boyd loved to lie.” 

Raylan speaks like he’s recalling a fond memory. Boyd was always a shit-stirring schemer, but maybe back then, it was worth Raylan’s time to have one on his side.

What he describes is angry boys turning to one another and making plans. Tim sometimes wonders if he hadn’t been such a quiet kid, if maybe _he’d_ had a friend to turn to, his plan wouldn’t have been as simplistic as it was: _Join the Army. Get a gun._

Boyd and Raylan’s plans were a bit more involved. They turned their backs on their daddies’ criminal business ventures and disappeared into the mines. _Honest work,_ they bragged, as if it mattered beyond the extent that their fathers wouldn’t know the term if it collapsed over their heads. The mines saved them. Then Boyd saved Raylan from the mines. 

Raylan frowns after having said all that. “It's more complicated than it sounds,” he says, though Tim doesn’t believe him. Not _wanting_ to owe an unpayable debt doesn’t negate the reality.

“Them mines, though,” and Raylan laughs as soon as he’s said it. “Scared the shit out of me.”

Tim mentions something Vasquez said to Raylan about his reluctance to ever call Boyd what he is: a crime boss.

Raylan flicks the brim of his hat and regards Tim carefully. “I don’t recall you being a part of that conversation.”

“The flimsy plastic desk partitions have ears," Tim says. “I was like two feet away.”

Raylan huffs a laugh and scratches along the line of his jaw. “I don’t call him a _crime boss_ because it gives him too much credit.”

“He’s got guys working for him," Tim reasons. "He’s running this Mexico thing through a cartel, probably. What is he, then? A crime enthusiast?” 

“He could invest in some new hobbies," Raylan allows. "Scrapbooking, maybe.” Tim’s wide smile catches his eye. “What?”

“Naw, man. You go ahead. I’ll follow you down this rabbit hole.”

Raylan shakes his head; it’s not like that. He won’t spend his life making excuses for Boyd, but Raylan won’t demonize him if it’s uncalled for, either. “We were friends, even before he saved my life. Just ‘cause I left Harlan after that didn’t mean I hated Boyd any.” Raylan frowns, looks at Tim then looks away. “He wanted us both to enlist.” 

Tim nods, but just barely. “Makes sense. You were old enough.”

Raylan shakes his head. “It felt like jumping outta the mines and into a foxhole, and I couldn’t do it. Sorry.”

Tim’s eyebrows shoot upwards. He wasn’t expecting an apology for denied service--least of all from Raylan. But he gets the feeling that Raylan doesn’t really mean it, and only thinks it’s something Tim and his kind want to hear. Tim very nearly loses his temper over _that_ , but reminds himself it’s his own simple conjecture. 

“Don’t apologize to me,” Tim says stiffly. “That was a win for the home team.”

Tim’s surprised the next words out of Raylan’s mouth aren’t, _And yours went into extra innings?_ because sometimes Raylan can be too precious about making sure those around know how clever he can be. Instead, he seems concerned that he didn’t explain himself properly and asks of Tim genuinely: “Did that answer your question any?”

Tim shrugs. “I was expecting something more epic,” he says, and Raylan knows he’s just teasing. “Not all origin stories can be winners, I guess. You’re just one of the Jay Garricks of the world.” (1)

Raylan smirks. “Well if it helps any, Rachel thinks me and Boyd are star-crossed lovers.”

“Oh, I can see that.”

“Ask her about it sometime, she’s really given it some thought.” Raylan’s smile tightens, then disappears. “How about you?”

“Uh, not as such. Lemme sleep on it.”

“You and Boyd.”

“He ain’t really my type,” Tim says, purposefully misunderstanding.

“You’d drive cross-country just to catch him with his hand in the cookie jar? All because of some shitty stunt?”

It sounds like a taunt, but Tim knows better. Raylan’s shot people for less and doesn’t genuinely think Tim’s overreacting or misplacing his anger. Not to mention, he’s in the passenger seat to this little venture. What Tim can’t figure is, what Raylan thinks he’ll hear by putting Tim on the offensive.

Tim turns the question back on Raylan, and he does it with a smile: “Didn’t you shoot him in the fucking heart ‘cause he once ate your chicken dinner? Am I misremembering that at all?”

Raylan grins. “Just drive, asshole.”

“Ate your chicken and stole your girl.”

\- 

When Boyd’s convoy pulls into a seedy hotel on the outskirts of Meridian, Mississippi for the night, Raylan and Tim double back and find a place downtown. They eat a meal at some generic chain restaurant, first, with Tim eyeballing the GPS tracker for unexpected movement. There’s none; Boyd and his men have turned in for the night, freeing up Tim and Raylan to do the same. 

Raylan’s excuse for booking a room at a nice hotel is delightfully simple: Boyd can’t afford it. There’s no chance of the Marshals running into Boyd and his crew in some lobby, breaking bread at the same complimentary continental breakfast. 

It’s a two-edged sword, however, because they’d look right at home in a rougher part of town. In the skyscraper of a hotel Raylan’s chosen, they stick out terribly: Raylan with his stetson, cowboy boots, and sidearm, and Tim with his enormous Army rucksack hooked over one shoulder. Even when producing a flush credit card, they look every bit the part of two men who have spent the entire day on the road, making their way south.

Tim’s bag is long enough to obscure the fact that, among t-shirts and underwear, there’s a sniper rifle encased in it. Raylan knows the shape, even if the hotel staff initially mistake him for a vagrant and shoot him curious looks before even he and Raylan reach the elevators. 

The room is great and sprawling with two beds, a couch, a desk, and plenty of floor space between them. It's awash in cool, crisp greens and soft whites. The beds look lush and luxurious, like kneeling brides in their brilliant white ensembles.

Raylan takes off his stetson and tosses his duffle in the vague direction of a bed. He takes up the remote and finds this really is an upscale hotel--they’ve got HBO.

After taking a long-awaited piss, Tim makes himself comfortable on one of the queen beds with his laptop and something out of the mini bar. He begins to download the GPS data from the portable receiver in the Jeep, tracks the distance and sends the data back to the office. Raylan, after discovering Tim found the only beer, stands watching him. 

“Why are we doing this again?” Raylan asks. 

"We?" Tim snorts, and continues pecking away at the keyboard. He knows Raylan is anxious to get out of the hotel room--even if it's a commendable step up from the Jeep Patriot, it's still a confined space, shared with Tim. 

“In case the GPS dies on us and we don’t want to stand on the side of the road with our thumbs up our asses,” Tim says, thinking that giving a specific answer may satisfy Raylan, rather than the less glamorous truth: _Because we have to._ He turns the screen to Raylan and shows him the marked stops, speed and location data. “Look: I know he prefers Shell stations to QuikTrips.”

Raylan makes a painfully bored face, and Tim knows he’s lost the battle. “That’s _fascinating_ , Tim. Really something.” 

“You know, you asked.” 

Raylan plucks his hat from the nightstand and dons it. “I’m going to the bar--”

“In the lobby,” Tim chirps helpfully. It’s wholly against Raylan’s nature not to find the seediest digs in town for a drink, but he begrudgingly understands the necessity of not crossing paths with Boyd. 

“-- _in the lobby._ You come along when you’re done sending winky faces to Chris.” 

“They’re called emojis, now,” Tim hums. He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen as he calls after Raylan, “Hey good thinking, bringing your hat. It might rain.” 

Leaving the room, Raylan flips him off. Tim greets him with the same twenty minutes later when he joins the senior Marshal at the bar. The decor is nothing like their room; here, the floors are a buffed marble stone and the ceilings are high and dark. It’s modern and moody, and while not to either Marshal’s tastes, it is a clear break from roadside eateries and gas stations, and therefore deserving of their appreciation. 

When Tim takes a seat next to Raylan at the bar, he doesn’t notice that Raylan already has company.

Raylan’s being hit on aggressively by an older woman--a professional, in her own way. There’s nothing two-bit about her; she’s well past her prime, sure, but dripping in diamond jewelry and not lacking for anything. There’s enough collagen in her face to tease back the years, and more than enough cash sunk into her breasts to make for one spectacular pair. Her vamping style isn’t natural, but her allure--her confidence to wear her entire self like an outfit--is somehow innate. 

Raylan’s been robbed blind by women before, but something about this one allows him to see it coming. She’s not fishing for a warm bed or even spending money. She saw Raylan for a lawman and knows there’s plenty to be won from anyone in a place of authority.

She not-so-subtly knocks over her name brand bag to expose its sole contents: condoms in multiple sizes, plus a pocketknife with a mother of pearl finish along the handle. It's a beautiful piece, but a particularly worrisome combination. She plucks an extra-large one from the pile and toys with it playfully.

“For me?” Raylan asks, feigning appreciation. “Miss, that’s awfully generous--” Tim snorts “--but my partner and I are here on business.” 

She looks past Raylan and doesn’t see her usual fare: he’s too young, first of all, and shares the same hapless haircut with her son. 

Like it’s any other part of her, she wears an unimpressed, almost resigned expression that reads, _Well, if you want to buy the farm, you’re going to need to fuck a few cows._

“Your friend can come,” she offers, but her sights are set on Raylan, as evidenced by the inch-and-a-half of glossy red fingernail she’s dragging across his forearm. 

“I think it goes without question I’d be jacking off while you two went at it,” Tim deadpans. “Ma’am.”

At Raylan’s quiet sniggering, the woman gets frustrated and leaves. She intends to sweep the room for an easier mark.

Raylan tips his beer towards Tim and says, “I’m going to tell you something that, if I find out Rachel gets wind of, I will break both goddamn fingers you type with.” Tim nods, gamely ready to sacrifice his two index fingers for the cause. Raylan bites the inside of his cheek before admitting, “She thought I was another pro. Sat right next to me and asked, _how’s tricks?_ ” 

Tim laughs openly as Raylan faces an existential crisis. 

“Is it the hat? Out of context, it could be the hat.”

Tim's smirking at Raylan's sorry mutterings when his phone rings.

"Chris?" Raylan guesses while Tim wrenches the device out of his jeans pocket.

"Jesus Christ, I hope not. I think he cursed me in html." 

Tim doesn't recognize the number, but doesn't get a chance to so much as answer when a voice tells him, _"I found the GPS tracker."_

It takes Tim a second to collect himself enough to keep his response level and calm, practically conversational: "Did you remove it?" 

The caller hesitates. "No. I called you."

Tim recognizes the caller--if not immediately by the voice, then at least his tone. He's trying for gruff and short-tempered, but hitting below the mark and accomplishing only something wary and disapproving. Tim downs the rest of his drink, then shakes his head when Raylan mouths _Who?_

"How’d you get this number, Jimmy?” Tim asks. He figures if Jimmy hasn't removed the device, then he hasn't clued Boyd in, either. And calling, well--simply means he wants to talk.

"Your wallet," Jimmy answers smugly. "Forgot your address, stole a business card.”

Tim works to smother a grin at that. He gives the name of the hotel he and Raylan are at and, perhaps unwisely, directions from Jimmy's location. Tim wants to impress upon Jimmy that it's Tim who is in the know, but Jimmy’s in a position to ask the questions. It’s a new reality, one Tim and Raylan did not plan for. 

"We gotta clue him in," Tim tells Raylan after ending the call. "Offer him a deal. Make him want it enough to screw over Crowder."

"He could blow it," Raylan warns. He’s more partial towards that old standby: threaten the kid into silence. 

“Just let me do the talking,” Tim advises. “He thinks you’re a dick.”

“What, like he’s got such a high opinion of the fella who chewed him out in a parking lot?”

Tim shrugs. “I got my charms.”

He signals for another round, plus one for their expected guest. 

\- 

Jimmy arrives like any outlaw might for a clandestine meeting with two federal officers: with a sweatshirt hood pulled up over his head, and a baseball cap pulled low over his face. He’d have drawn less attention in a tuxedo. 

Tim flags him down, then keeps his expression neutral as Jimmy takes a seat in their booth and yanks off his hood. He puts his hands flat on the tabletop, as if he suspects he'll be asked to do so anyway.

"Why are you following him?"

Raylan answers smoothly, "We think he's pulling something big and we want to put him away for it. Fairly routine cops-and-criminal shtick."

“Does Boyd know where you are?” Tim asks.

“Or just Clark Kent?" Raylan cracks. "I assume you two donned your disguises in the same telephone booth.” 

“What?” Jimmy glares at Raylan, but his face softens as he turns to Tim. “No.”

“Does he know what you found?”

“No--”

Tim doesn’t let up on the questioning. “You planning on telling him?” 

Jimmy opens, then closes his mouth. Whether he betrays Boyd now or does the deed later _does_ matter. It is somehow worthwhile to be able to say, _I held out, boss. For as long as I could._

Eventually, Tim supplies: "You want a deal, then." 

"I--yeah, I guess." Jimmy answers weakly, then takes off his cap and kneads it with both hands in his lap. With a little more confidence, he looks across the table at the two Marshals and repeats: “Yeah. I want a deal.”

"You want to help," Tim corrects, the realization slow-coming.

Jimmy’s been witness to enough drug deals to know he’s being bargained down. If he was dealing now in money or favors, he wouldn’t watch his worth diminish so easily. Tim pushes an opened, but untouched beer towards Jimmy. 

_It’s not for nothing,_ Jimmy thinks, and says quietly: “I want you to know what I know.”

Raylan’s had about enough of playing footsie with some second-string henchman, and drawls, “So impress us, son. Tell us what you know.”

Although he hardly looks old enough to have it, Jimmy takes a swig of beer. In the same breath, he looks like he needs something stronger. In no uncertain terms, Jimmy tells the Marshals that Boyd means to make an enormous buy to pay off prison guards, first. 

“And second?” Raylan presses. Tim’s not wrong--Raylan can understand the impulse Boyd has to see to Ava’s protection, but paying off a few corrupt prison guards is of little interest to him. Now, he wants all the planning, effort, and distance to pay off. 

Jimmy shrugs. “You know Boyd. He’s got plans.” 

“And he’s buying from a cartel,” Tim says, but doesn’t wait for confirmation. “Do you know which one?”

Jimmy shakes his head. He looks pitiful, realizing how quickly he went from holding all the power to giving all the answers, however half-formed. “I could ask?” 

Tim shuts him down: “No, don’t." He ignores the look Raylan shoots him and continues, "You keep doing what you're doing. If you haven’t been asking questions, don’t start now. Can you keep in contact with us?"

Jimmy nods. "He's in his truck, I'm in mine. I can call you."

"He sees you yucking it up, what's he gonna think?"

Jimmy shrugs and reasons, "Practicing my Spanish." Tim cracks at that. His amused smirk pleases Jimmy enough that he takes a swig of beer and almost feels comfortable, like he's forgotten his place in all this. "Um, what's the... deal side of this deal?"

"Depends what you can deliver," Raylan says before Tim can coddle the boy with a generous promise. And Tim lets it slide, because it's a stronger finish than Tim could have made on his own, and Jimmy seems to have begrudgingly accepted it. 

"Boyd gonna notice your absence?" Raylan asks. It's more of a hint to disappear than a genuine concern, and that distinction is not lost on Jimmy. Tim trusts Raylan is correct in wanting the keep the meeting short, so he says nothing to stay Jimmy’s departure. 

Jimmy chugs a healthy sum of his beer, then rises from the table. He’s red-faced, but he hasn’t had enough to drink to account for that.

"You did the right thing," Tim assures. 

Jimmy looks at him, wide-eyed and pitiful. Tim knows his work is far from done--for his part, not removing the device is one thing; betraying Boyd fully and knowing the wreckage was his own will be another. 

"Yeah. Sure feels like it." He stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and leaves the bar.

Raylan grins, pleasantly surprised with the evening’s unexpected turn. “Shit, he really didn’t think that through," he chuckles, then finishes his drink and claps Tim on the shoulder. “You got your CI after all.”

Tim nods in agreement, but doesn't seem particularly enthused. 

"Yeah," Raylan replies like Tim's sorry expression speaks volumes, "He's no pro. You'll be doing a shit ton of hand-holding with this one." He grins again, laughs at their good fortune. "Alright. I'm gonna turn in."

"You're not gonna track down our new lady friend?"

"If I do, I'll leave a note outside the door. Probably a half dozen of my severed fingers."

Raylan wriggles them goodbye. 

He does stop to compliment a young woman on her outfit, so Tim reminds himself to knock when he gets the room, anyway. He imagines that might yet be a while because in watching the main door, Tim did not spy Jimmy's departure. After finishing his beer--as well as what’s left of Jimmy’s--he wanders the lobby, looking for his straying CI. 

Tim finds him sunk in a luxurious white leather loveseat. Jimmy looks up, his face drawn and forlorn. He’s regretting ever meeting the Marshals, and worse still, not walking away with a concrete deal. Tim fiddles with his phone and doesn’t take a seat. 

“What surprised me most about your call was,” Tim starts, his tone light, “I don’t put my cell number on my business card.”

Jimmy wets his lips and lowers his head. “I called your office, said I was a buddy of yours from the Army tryin’ to reach you.” 

“See, I knew you were a smart kid.” Tim’s close enough to playfully nudge Jimmy’s knee with his own, but he doesn’t. With a flop sweat suddenly beading at his hairline, Jimmy looks like one good jab could send him to pieces. 

“Can I tell you something?”

“That’s what you’re here for.” Tim regrets his wording, but Jimmy seems unfazed. He lifts himself out of the seat and starts towards a hall positioned opposite of the bar and dining areas. Tim follows and they eventually find an empty conference room outfitted with a long table and stylish wingback chairs. They don’t sit; instead, Jimmy leans against the wall closest to the door, like he’s worried about being seen. By whom, Tim doesn’t know--a nosy concierge, maybe. The discriminating hotel staff wouldn’t let a character like Boyd Crowder into their parking lot, much less the lobby. 

“I been thinking about what you said,” Jimmy says in a quiet rush. 

“About keeping your head down?” Tim hopes. 

Jimmy inches forward, closing the space between them. His hands spill out of his pockets and fumble for Tim's. He only gets as far as Tim's jacket sleeves, but it seems to be enough. He tips forward and kisses Tim. He's all chapped lips and zero technique, but he's warm. And sincere. 

He breaks away breathing like he’s just run a 4-minute mile. 

“I’ve never done that before,” he admits, and although his eyes are large and scared, he’s grinning wide. His expression is a wash of intellectual terror and emotional joy. “I’m 25 and I never…” 

He shakes his head, at a loss. His grip on Tim's jacket doesn't let up, but Tim doesn't jerk away, either. Instead, Jimmy can feel the Marshal’s gaze settle on him. It doesn’t feel scrutinizing or cruel, or driven by disgust. Still, Jimmy can’t bring himself to meet it. He’s scared, but more than that--he’s hopeful. 

Tim doesn’t tell Jimmy they can’t do this. Or, more to the point, that Tim doesn’t _want_ to do this. Like so many of his thoughts this past week, however, they turn to Boyd Crowder. He needs this sting operation to prove fruitful, which requires keeping Jimmy in his favor. Tim realizes his hands are sort of stalled, midair, from when Jimmy caught him off guard. He raises them now to brush either side of Jimmy’s face. The skin is smooth, without even the barest hint of awkward growth. His face is warm and getting warmer.

Tim kisses him back. “You did just fine.”

The touch is gentle, even more so than Jimmy’s own efforts. Jimmy sinks into it, his anxious hunger for the unknown finally sated. Tim brings his hands down from Jimmy’s cheeks to his neck, and thumbs at the soft sheepskin of his coat's interior. Jimmy emits a soft whine--he’s sorry for the loss of Tim’s touch, so instead of pulling back, Tim lingers. His hands are enormous against Jimmy’s chest, and Tim is reminded of how much a kid he really is. He can hear Jimmy’s heart pounding and knows if he gives in just once more, Jimmy will be the perfect CI: hopeful and helpful and eager to please. 

It’s difficult not to jump on a sure thing, but Tim keeps his distance. 

“Thank you,” he says instead. He looks Jimmy in the eyes so as to convey that at least this is real, though he doubts Jimmy can even conceive of a lie in something he’s not first experienced by genuine means. “For trying to help me, before. And for helping me now.”

Tim ducks out of the room and doesn’t wait to see if Jimmy leaves the building. He races up seven flights of stairs, stopping only then to listen for echoing footsteps. He hears none. With heavy, clumping steps he walks the final flight to his and Raylan’s room on the eighth floor where, again, he listens for company. 

\- 

“You get lost?” Raylan asks as Tim enters their room. He’s pulling his green henley up over his head and discarding it atop his duffle. He pops the top button on his jeans, next, but waits for Tim to answer after noticing he seems distracted.

“Jimmy hung around.”

“Oh yeah? What’d he want?” Raylan returns to undressing, and soon stands unabashed in only his boxer shorts. 

“He really does want to help,” Tim says evenly. “He just wanted me to know that.” Tim takes off his jacket, shirt, belt, and kicks off his shoes. Otherwise, he intends to sleep fully clothed in jeans and an undershirt. 

“He probably knows the _good ship Boyd_ is sinking. He’s got WitSec in his sights.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, unconvinced. Raylan shrugs, the matter already forgotten, and disappears under a mountain of sheets and comforter. 

Tim lies in bed and, for a long time, does not sleep. 

\- 

Raylan wakes up to see that Tim is showered, dressed, packed, and watching Saturday morning cartoons. 

“They’re doing the same shit they did twenty years ago,” Tim tells him. “They’re still eating pizza in a fucking sewer. How’s that for a business model?” 

“Oh my god,” Raylan groans. Tim’s dressed in the same jeans as yesterday (and all night, he supposes), but had traded his utility shirt for a tee and a lightweight hoodie. He’d look like a college kid, except he’s got his rifle bag across his lap. 

Noticing Tim’s neatly made bed, Raylan yawns and throws a pillow to muss it up. “You know they pay people to do that, right?”

Tim turns a skeptic eye to the rats nest Raylan’s made of his own bed. “Not enough,” he says.

Raylan kicks free of his twisted sheets and heavy comforter. “Yeah, well,” he pads slowly to the bathroom, “You can do mine, then.” 

When Raylan finishes his shower, he comes back into the room. His hair is stuck flat to his head and neck, dripping incessantly, and Tim can’t help but agree with Rachel: the man needs a haircut. 

With a towel wrapped loose around his waist Raylan sits on his mess of a bed. All the air escapes the feather comforter and sort of wheezes under Raylan’s weight. He yawns, stretches, and starts to dress right there in the open, in front of Tim. He’s naturally wiry, but there’s definition to his form. But Tim’s never really seen Raylan over-exert himself beyond the scope of a liquor bottle, so he’s not sure how the whole picture is possible. A man doesn’t look like Raylan does, driving around all day eating ice cream and occasionally shooting people. Then again, Raylan’s shot _a lot of people._

The white henley Raylan pulls on hugs his damp chest and arms, and twists around his middle. Raylan huffs, frustrated, and disappears into the bathroom to step into his underwear and Levi’s. He leaves the latter unbuttoned and sliding off his narrow hips when he emerges from the bathroom, wet hair swept back and sudsy toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Boyd ain’t gonna leave this early,” he says, toothbrush bouncing.

Tim eyeballs the GPS tracker. There’s no movement yet, but Tim is not deterred. “I’m betting he will.” 

Raylan shrugs into a plaid shirt, then finally gets around to buttoning his jeans. “You Army boys. Think the day starts with the sun.”

\- 

They’ve just sat down for coffee and breakfast--in Raylan’s case, a bowl of vanilla ice cream he charmed out of the wait staff--when Tim proudly shows Raylan the GPS tracker. There’s movement, but both men figure they have the time to eat. 

They choose to sit out on the patio. It’s chilly, but at least it’s not raining. Being outdoors is refreshing, and the place even smells different from Kentucky. 

“Hey,” Raylan narrows his eyes against the rising daylight. A bright beam cuts across their table and spotlights Tim’s plate of orange slices. “I just thought of something. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You _just_ thought of that,” Tim repeats, dumbfounded. It’s only a mild surprise and hardly a blow to their plans, so he smiles when he asks teasingly: “You didn’t pick up any in Miami?”

Raylan considers this. “Alright, I don’t speak any polite Spanish.” 

“If we come across any señoras fáciles, I’ll let you do the talking.” 

“Gracias,” Raylan says, like he means it. 

Tim snorts softly. “Let's not forget your expansive repertoire of Japanese.” (2)

“Domo arigatou,” Raylan says, and although Tim hasn’t heard a lick of Japanese outside a horror flick that made him piss his pants when he was nine, he knows Raylan is woefully butchering the pronunciation. 

“That’s one, _karate_ makes two…”

“ _Geri,_ ” Raylan completes the list, and translates: “Diarrhea.” 

Tim raises his coffee cup, toasts it with Raylan’s. “To learning,” he cheers dully, and takes a sip. 

Tim can’t help but smile, looking around the mostly vacant patio space, then down at his full plate of fresh fruits and crisp toast slathered in jelly. He’s been on stakeouts where all he had to eat was warm string cheese and cold coffee, and yet more stakeouts where he only wished he had as much. 

Raylan adds, “Speak some French, though.”

“No kidding? Sweet Valley Harlan High offered French?”

“Hardly did English justice,” Raylan says. “No, there was this girl from Montreal, her daddy worked administration for the mining company, something to that effect.” He stops there, confident he’s explained enough. “How about you?”

“Never boned a French girl,” Tim says. “High school Spanish, all four years. Kept up with it. Fast tracked Arabic after Basic, got shipped to Afghanistan instead, so,” Tim makes a face Raylan has seen over the copier when it eats Tim’s attempts to digitize files for another department. It reads, _Well fuck me, then._

“They don’t speak Arabic?”

Tim shakes his head, corrects, “Pashto.” Realizing that doesn’t do much to clear the issue of any confusion, he continues: “There’s some overlap, which would have been helpful, but we learned like… high lord Arabic. Quranic Arabic. Which made us look like assholes, mostly.” With a straight face, he corrects: “Pendejos.” 

“That, I know.” Raylan grins wide and Tim thinks he’s in for another story from Raylan’s stint in Miami. Instead, his expression falters. The smile is still far-away and warm, but what he says next isn’t out of some sunkissed memory--at least, not one of his own. “You ever miss it?”

It’s unexpected, but Tim doesn’t have to ask him to elaborate. “When I’m parked at my desk, typing a report no one is ever gonna read?” He spears a chunk of melon on his plate. “Every goddamn second.”

“You ever consider going back?”

“It’s a young man’s game,” Tim says without the slightest hint of irony. 

Raylan can’t help but smirk. “Were you _not_ watching the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles this morning?”

Tim wipes his hands clean on the leg of his jeans and takes up the GPS tracker. Boyd is putting distance between them, and Tim would rather drive slow and stunted at his back than fall behind. “You done with your ice cream, sport? Let’s hit the road.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Jay Garrick was the original Flash and his origin story is basically: bad at science, good at naps.  
> (2) Thank you for the reminder, acire!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, kind readers! I am now officially at that point where I have nothing else written, save for indecipherable notes like _jimmy?? boyd!! o fuck. + rain_

The second morning en route to Mexico is more pleasant than the first. Being familiar with the tracking device and the practice of keeping their distance is only the start. Their moods are bolstered by Jimmy’s new allegiance, too, and the fact that Raylan springs for Starbucks coffee over some cheap gas station brew. 

Even better, Raylan finds a radio station airing nothing but The Clash. For the better part of an hour, it’s a contest to best the other and name the song in its earliest notes. Raylan gets _I Fought the Law_ and _Police and Thieves,_ which Tim thinks is a little too on the nose. 

Raylan claims not to have given _Jimmy Jazz_ away to Tim, but there are no such quibbles over _Somebody Got Murdered_ and _Train in Vain,_ which Tim gets in half a heartbeat. 

The change of scenery helps, too. Instead of the dark, dense woods of Kentucky, they find their drive drenched in light and colored by the nearing coast. For Tim, it’s like waking up in some brave new world. The sky seems broader, the sun hung closer--and the trees--generously termed--are little more than shrubs and tall grass. The earth along the side of the road is streaked red where car wheels have ripped into it, scattered the Tim can smell the coming water from inside the Jeep, even, and sees it in the color of the sky. _It’s just Mississippi,_ Tim thinks, but it isn’t. It’s a chase and his path is lit by both a blinking green light and a great, fiery sun. 

For Raylan, a passenger side seat is the same in any state, and he’s struggling to stay awake.

Tim gives the horn a tap and startles Raylan. 

“I was just closing my eyes,” Raylan says, quick to jump to his own defense. “You can’t tell me I was snoring again.”

“I’m just concerned,” Tim teases, then squares his shoulders like he’s been made to feel uneasy. “I thought you were possessed.” 

“I was. By the sweet release of sleep.” Raylan settles back against his seat, chin-to-chest and hat pulled low.

Tim has shed his jacket and pushed his sweatshirt sleeves to his elbows. They're enjoying an unexpectedly warm morning, which is pleasant enough now, but if the weather alerts on Tim's phone are to be believed may later spell trouble for the Gulf states. A tropical storm is forming off the coast, but it's anyone's guess if the churning warm and cold air will break it apart over far-away waters, or send it crashing into the shoreline and beyond.

“How can you be tired? You slept half of yesterday, plus the whole night.” 

“It’s part of getting old, son.” Raylan doesn’t really think about how Tim might know about him sleeping soundly through the night, unless the same can’t be said for him.

“Part of getting type 2 diabetes,” Tim mutters. 

“When you get to be my age, you learn to appreciate the simple things.” Raylan must recognize how ridiculous he sounds, because he lightens his approach and continues, “Naps and ice cream, heavy drinking to numb the pain of living. It’s served me well.”

“Well thanks for the sage advice, then,” Tim says, and despite his protests, he really does enjoy listening to Raylan talk. He’s smart and funny, and still flush with stories despite being unloaded of a day’s worth. “File that away with all your other gems.” 

Raylan doesn’t differ much from Tim: he likes hearing himself talk, too. But for as much as he’s had time to perfect his own stories, he always has an ear turned towards the unpolished. He bets Tim has a few stories of his own, even if he’s reticent to share. Raylan decides to start with the easy stuff, but finds Tim keeps a tight lid on even the simplest things. 

“Favorite movie?” 

“Lord of the Rings.”

“Favorite book?”

“...Lord of the Rings. I also like the soundtrack.”

“Careful, I’m gonna get the idea you don’t like talkin’ to me.” Raylan puts on a long face, but Tim just smiles sweetly. “Humor me. You woke me up, after all.”

“Why should I be alone to suffer your company? You should suffer mine.” If Boyd was driving through the night, Tim could understand letting his partner nap during the day. But there’s no trade off of driving duties yet, nor the need. But Tim supposes he’d be bored, too, and allows: “All right. Ask your question.”

Raylan grins for no other reason than he’s pleased to have worn Tim down. He gives his opportunity some serious thought, and Tim thinks he’s about to hallucinate the _Millionaire_ countdown music in the paced silence between his permission and Raylan’s decision to abuse it.

“You got PTSD?” Raylan asks, and watches as Tim’s eyebrows shoot up, impressed.

“Well make it count, why don’t you.” Tim briefly considers lying outright, but figures Raylan must have an inkling. He wouldn’t throw away a question; he’d sooner seek confirmation for something he already knows. Tim wets his lips, then replies, “How do you mean?”

Raylan frowns and believes Tim is only messing with him. “Generally speaking, I mean how I asked. Was I unclear?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “It ain’t official,” he admits, and explains: “If the VA don't diagnose you with it, they don’t have to pay for treatment. And if you can’t get an appointment, you don’t get diagnosed. So, no. I have not been diagnosed with PTSD.”

“Huh.” Raylan’s not a completely hopeless case--he’s read articles, seen the reports filed on local news stations, and understands the jokes made on The Daily Show. He knows of the systematic pitfalls that plague returning veterans. It’s not even the proximity that eludes him--he was familiar enough with Veteran’s Affairs bureaucracy as it stood in Arlo’s day, too. Perhaps, then, Raylan’s never really thought about the matter in terms of _actually caring_ about someone affected. 

Raylan decides not to dwell on the unjust nature of what Tim is describing, if only because Tim can’t be answerable to that. 

Raylan squints and teases, “But you got it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tim grins. “In spades.”

Raylan nods once, more than satisfied with this question and Tim’s answer. Again, he finds himself closing his eyes. Only the barest strip of light and road remain in his field of vision; it’s all there is to see, really, save for the gray column that his partner. 

“So, you wanna keep talking or are we done?” 

Tim’s tone is light, but there’s an undercurrent of triumph Raylan hears loud and clear. He decides to throw back a little of his own. 

Raylan peaks open one eye. "I guess that's up to you. Are you gonna keep honking that goddamn horn?"

Tim smirks. He's lost, but there's no shame in being bested by the cleverer player. Raylan's ploy was a round about way to get Tim talking enough and, in turn, decide his partner at sleep is preferable. It's a bloodless coup. 

"Goodnight, Raylan."

\- 

Art, Rachel, Vasquez, and Jimmy all call Tim. It’s not with news or intel, and mostly they seem to want to chat. Art calls to say he got the first hotel bill, and whose pay can he dock for charging their drinks at the bar to the department credit card? Tim cops to the offense, but claims it was in pursuit of justice. 

“That CI I might have had? I got him.” Tim doesn’t sound particularly pleased with himself, but even Raylan can hear Art’s amused laughter over the phone. 

“I’ll let it slide, but don’t wine and dine him forever.”

“Yessir,” Tim says. The response seems to drag, like Tim would rather take the punishment than bask in Art’s glowing approval. 

Rachel’s call is more of the same. 

“Heard you bagged a CI,” Rachel says. Tim eyes the clock on the dash, knows it’s her lunch break and guesses she’s bored out of her mind with half her side of the office missing. 

“Yeah, but I must be shit at it. Does _confidential_ mean nothing in this office?” 

“Art and I had a bet going. He didn’t think it was ever going to happen for you--you’re not very outgoing.”

“Jesus Christ, he ain’t my prom date.”

“Oh lord, Tim. Did you not go to prom--?”

“ _Bye,_ Rachel.”

Vasquez’s call is actually pertinent to their case, so naturally Raylan zones out. Still, he makes a face at Tim’s overly familiar tone with Vasquez, but Tim ignores him. He’s worked three late nights with the guy, two of which ended with drinks at a nearby bar. When you’ve heard a man curse out the most prominent judge in the entire state of Kentucky, _you get to call him by his first fucking name._

When Jimmy calls, Tim puts it on speaker.

“We’re on the I-12, heading West. Boyd wants to get through Texas today, maybe even cross the border if weather permits. Uh, his words.” 

“Hello to you, too, Jimmy.”

“Oh. Uh. Hey.” Jimmy waits a beat, the confesses in a breathless rush: “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You’re doing great, Jimmy," Tim assures. His tone is certain, not warm.

“I don’t--”

“I thought we reached an understanding. Last night.”

“Did we?” Jimmy sounds hopeful. Tim decides he has to stamp that out. 

“I thought so. Keep an eye on the weather,” Tim instructs. “I doubt Boyd’ll make Mexico tonight.” 

“He’s been good to me,” Jimmy continues, not aware that Tim wants to end the call strong, and not allow Jimmy the luxury of allowing himself to be heard. He is more certain of this than of any understanding he might have brokered with Tim--imagined, hoped for, or otherwise. “We do some wild shit--”

“Understatement,” Raylan pipes up.

“--but I get a fair cut. And, I mean, _Boyd_ \--” Jimmy isn’t fooling anyone. Despite his turn towards Tim and newfound allegiance, he is forever in awe of Boyd. His breathless defense suggests he still thinks the world of the outlaw, considers him a genius.

 _Kid gloves,_ Tim reminds himself as he readies his rebuttal. Any new CI sees himself as the battle-scarred hero of their own action movie, but wants the handling of the top billed celebrity actor.

Tim lets Jimmy talk himself into worried knots before sliding into the position of the voice of reason. 

“You make some good points, Jimmy, but here’s another: Jamie Russell.” Tim waits a moment and lets that sink in. He can hear a slight intake of breath on the other line. It reads as dread and, most importantly, recognition. “That was her name, wasn’t it? Just some kid who didn’t know how little she mattered until Boyd Crowder put a bullet through the side of her head. Did you dispose of her body? Which was it--the slurry or the woods?”

A distilled silence sets in and briefly, all parties mistakenly think the other has disconnected the call. 

“The woods,” Jimmy answers weakly. “‘Cause Boyd said no one would be looking for her. The slurry is good but… risky.” 

“The slurry is risky,” Tim agrees. His voice is like soft, wet earth. Jimmy is mesmerized by how deep and safe it sounds, but only just long enough for Tim to bury him. “Boyd teach you that?”

Jimmy says nothing. 

Tim continues, “He’s not thinking straight. Never mind his asinine plan for me, Boyd is messing up all over. How does dealing with a cartel really help Ava? He’s lost it, Jimmy, and you’re smart enough to know that.”

Still, Jimmy says nothing. 

Tim tries a different approach. “You remember that morning after? You waited by my car--that was real sweet, by the way--and returned my wallet? You were surprised he let me live, weren’t you? You looked it.”

Jimmy’s brain staggers on the way Tim calls him _sweet_ , and he only just manages an affirmative reply: “Yeah.”

“I was surprised _you_ were alive,” Tim tells him. “I thought maybe Boyd would decide he did need a body to show Mooney. Face down in that risky slurry, who could tell the difference? We ain’t so different.” 

It’s a very deliberate choice of words. Tim knows this because he chose them. Jimmy knows because he hears the coded message. Raylan hears it as a lie, and figures Tim must have some reason to tell it.

Jimmy starts to speak, but can’t seem to find the words. Tim sighs and prompts, “What are you telling me, Jimmy?”

“I trust you.” Jimmy manages to cobble together one sentence, then another--this one, more destructive than the first. “But I _believe_ in Boyd.”

Raylan gets a look on his face, something like a smile but without a fleck of pleasure. He knows that song and dance, probably better than Jimmy ever will. He’s lived that sentiment, followed Boyd down into the mines when every cell of his being told him _no._ Unlike all other life on earth, Raylan suspected Boyd never consulted reason. Rather, he had his wits and a kind of certainty derived from no lesson or experience. It was damn near intrinsic, like Boyd summoned up the Holy Spirit and could pass along the message. Raylan, in his youth, listened eagerly. He was told: _We get in, we get out._

Boyd was thinking a long, long ways out. 

Raylan catches Tim staring, reading him. 

“I can work with that,” Tim tells Jimmy, and ends the call. 

\- 

A fifth call is a surprise to Tim; he even hesitates to answer. It comes so close after Jimmy that both men expect it's him, calling back. The sun is shining bright and Raylan can’t get back to sleep. He’s fiddling with the radio station, but lowers the volume out of deference to Tim’s call. 

Over the four previous conversations, Raylan hears a trend in Tim’s answering of his myriad of callers: _Hey, boss. Hey, Rachel. David--hey. Hello, Jimmy._

Raylan only _really_ notices the trend when Tim abandons it.

“Hey-- _hi._ Um,” Tim doesn’t greet the caller. It’s enough on this long, boring drive to catch Raylan’s attention. He watches as Tim shifts in his seat, as if he expects to gain any privacy by moving an inch to the left. “I can’t really talk right now--driving, yeah.” Tim switches hands on the wheel and presses his phone to his left ear, now, because it’s just Tim’s luck that Raylan would sleep through the morning, but be alert for this particular call. “Coming up on Louisiana.” 

Tim listens for a moment, and suddenly his hard expression breaks into something open and bright. It’s only fleeting, but his tone turns eager and stays that way. “You did? Shit, man. That’s--that’s great. Congratulations.” He listens more, even smiles, before crashing his dull, dry tone back down on the conversation. “Yeah, I… me too. I don’t know how long this’ll take, but I’ll keep you posted.” Tim cracks another smile, then profoundly fails in his attempt to smother it. “I’m glad. I’ll see you soon.”

When he ends the call, he’s still fighting the smile off his face. He spies Raylan looking at him, an eyebrow raised up and disappeared under his stetson.

“Boyfriend,” Tim says. 

“No kidding?” Raylan blinks. 

“Yeah, I made him up.”

Tim suddenly feels his world come to a grinding halt. The smile that’s still on his face feels like it’s burned there, a painful mark on a petrified host. It’s eventually lost to wiser muscles, the ones that call for order amidst this, _DEFCON one._

He absently tests the pedal to see that they’re still moving, to ensure the Jeep is still hurtling them along this empty stretch of highway. There’s no commute here; Tim notices that. His brain sizes up the semi trucks ahead of them, the few they’ve passed. He notices that the sky has brightened some and the rain they’ve come to expect may not yet appear today. The ride is smooth--maybe the highway’s been recently re-paved?

Tim visits every possible thought before coming upon the only one that matters. He lets out a slow and steady breath and then says the _second_ worst thing he could: “I should not have told you that. I don’t know why I told you that.” 

And he hates himself for calling attention to what maybe-- _maybe?_ \--he could have gotten away with. Raylan might have accepted the explanation as an unfunny joke. It seems impossible, but Tim will rip a hole in the fabric of the universe to prove to himself otherwise. 

“Well. You did.” Raylan’s reply is stalled, at first, then almost abrupt. Tim hears it a thousand times over between his ears: a taunt where there is none. Raylan stares a while longer, then purses his lips like he’s considering something. His attention drifts to the road, where Tim is losing himself to the left lane. Tim sees this and course corrects. 

Raylan finally smiles--not amused, but… pleased. “So what’s the good news?”

Tim feels nauseous. He'd pull over, but driving is the one thing he has to pretend he's otherwise too occupied to give Raylan his full attention. Tim needs to breath--maybe some of those deep, calming breaths he’s heard all about--but all he gets is dry mouth and a stupid look on his face. 

He feels thin. Like uneasy sleep or damn good narcotics, he feels distant, suspended on some outer plane of existence. Like he’s been plucked out of Mississippi and dropped onto Mount Everest, and oxygen is scarce.

“He got a job at a law firm. Leaving his bartending gig for it. Not sure I can get on board with that.” 

It’s all said in a rush, fit into a single harried breath. Tim imagines it as his last and purses his lips; he’s said too much. Not specifically anything, just… _too much._ Raylan is smiling at him again. 

_What the fuck am I doing. What the fuck am I doing._ Tim feels a sick kind of excitement at the back of his mouth. It tastes like continental breakfast. 

He spies an upcoming exit, but knows he can’t take it. They’ve just started out. Two hours into their day, and they’re only just entering Louisiana. Besides, breaking for a rest stop hardly offers him what he wants: a gaping black hole into which is disappearance is total, definitive, and completely untraceable. 

Raylan continues, sort of absent-minded sounding in a way Tim believes is wholeheartedly _deliberate,_ “He wasn’t at your place, day of the funeral.” 

“We don’t live together,” Tim says, skipping over the fact that he never told Jack about Mark, let alone Mark’s funeral. _New approach,_ Tim calculates. _Tell him just enough to make him think he knows everything._

Raylan smiles like Tim has said something precious. “Why not?” 

“If I let him move in, then there’s no room for the breakfast nook I been planning. Use your head, Raylan. That nook is my everything.” To Tim’s ears, his own comment is sardonic enough to pass as the joke it’s intended to be; but there’s something undercutting his usual dry edge. It’s cold, wet dread. 

Raylan means to meet Tim, joke-for-joke: “In your matchbox apartment? Best you could do is a bay window.” He fiddles with the radio--the signal is weak and only some sad country tune is wilting through the speakers--and pretends to consider things. “You could move into his place.”

“That’s your M.O. for avoiding property taxes. It ain’t mine.” Tim is white-knuckling the wheel. 

Raylan smiles again, now uncertain. He even tips his hat back, as if Tim’s given him a start. “You feeling okay? Is it… _geri?_ ”

“You’re an asshole,” Tim breathes. 

“You look a little pale, is all,” Raylan says. Then, in a tone so cool and gentle it is as though he is giving permission through a command, Raylan tells Tim: “Pull over.”

Tim, who knows better than most how to mask his feelings, to project confidence when only terror clenches at his insides, believes Raylan’s quiet observation. He does as he’s told and pulls over slowly onto the shoulder. His arms are locked against the wheel until he breaks, and jams a thumb into his seat belt buckle, releasing the band. He doesn't know why he does it; he's not planning on going anywhere. He thinks he just wants the pressure off his chest and went for the obvious physical presence, first. 

Raylan stares at him, first confused, then less so. 

Raylan sighs, deep and tired, and Tim feels like they’ve had a whole other conversation. He hopes he didn’t say anything too stupid.

“Come on, Tim. Give me a little credit.” 

“This has got nothing to do with you,” Tim grits out. They’ve stopped just short of Slidell, Louisiana. A pristine country club resides to their left. Beyond the towering treeline, Tim imagines something like a wedding taking place--maybe with some young guy just as terrified as he is.

“So you’d rather I think you do this all the time? Think about boys and look like you’re about to keel over?” Raylan plucks his coffee cup from its holder and takes a sip. It’s cold, but he luxuriates in the time it gives him to think, _really think_ about what Tim’s mistakenly told him and what his grating silence tells him, now. 

It's a surprise, certainly. Kind of sweet. Really sad. Raylan knows he can't relate those impressions to Tim--that'd just be cruel. 

“Look, I didn’t interrogate you. You offered that up. And. It’s fine, alright? It’s good.” Raylan’s expecting Tim to give him a withering look--maybe even a new, outright denial--but none comes. 

Tim has this hard look on his face, like he’s eyeballing a target. His nostrils flare slightly when he breathes in and out, which he suddenly seems capable of doing only sparingly. He doesn’t sit in silence for long. Eventually, Tim blinks, wets his lips, and lets free a short, resigned noise. 

When he speaks, he is neither sorry nor awed. He’s quiet, thoughtful--almost curious. His declaration--however simple and mindless--was a surprise to him, too. 

“I never told anyone. Like that. Ever.”

“Well then that boyfriend of yours is in for a surprise.”

It’s not Raylan’s best joke, but Tim seems not to have heard it, anyway. He's still staring straight ahead, looking sort of dumbfounded. 

“Nothing changes, Tim. At work, in Kentucky?” Raylan isn’t sure what needs saying. Maybe Tim wants everything to change and this is just the first, accidental step. Or maybe he's right to be worried that he's upset the careful balance struck between his work life and his real life. Raylan thinks hard about what he'd want in a similar situation: not promises for an uncertain future, but some semblance of what he knows. If he's wounded, Raylan wouldn't want to hear about all the fine prosthetic options; he’d want something to stop the bleeding. 

“Is it a secret?”

Tim’s mouth twists, disgusted. “Yeah.”

“Then I’ll keep your secret.”

Raylan’s tone is laced with practiced calm. He waits for Tim to understand that he is making a genuine overture, however stilted and awkward the offer. He looks to where Tim is staring, and realizes the younger Marshal isn’t so much as looking through the window as he is studying Raylan’s reflection in it. This whole time, Tim has been watching Raylan, reading his response. Finally caught, Tim looks away. 

Tim rolls his shoulders and grimaces at the dashboard. “Shit,” he spits. 

“It ain’t a big deal, Tim.”

“I know. Just. _Shit._ Feels like it.”

He supposes he’s frustrated that he said anything, or else angry that maybe his silence and months of self-editing behavior was unnecessary. Raylan makes acceptance sound so _easy._

They sit there, stalled on the side of the road until Tim’s drooping gaze eventually falls on the GPS receiver. There is a real task at hand, he knows, far greater than the preservation of his dignity. Tim regains his full composure and pulls the Jeep back onto the highway.

Because he still looks like sick warmed over, Raylan prompts, "Do you believe me, Tim?"

"Yeah," Tim says, and is ashamed at how hoarse his voice sounds. "Okay." 

He doesn't. He's certain Raylan knows that. But Tim is determined to see Louisiana, Texas, and-- _soon_ \--Mexico, and aims to make the journey in peaceable silence. 

\- 

As they drive, the sun disappears beyond a wash of gray sky, but the air remains warm. Both are of little consequence, as the interior of the Jeep adopts a chilly atmosphere. Tim even pulls down the wrinkled sleeves of his hoodie, as if he can't stand to be any more exposed than he feels.

Through the silence, Tim feels a wall of questions mounting. Raylan holds out for a long while, but in Tim’s opinion, it’s never long enough. 

“Art don’t know?” Raylan’s tone is friendly and casual, almost disinterested. Tim knows better, but there’s no sense in lying. 

“He’s a U.S. Marshal, not a detective.”

“Could be you’re a better liar than he’s a skeptic,” Raylan offers, then holds up his hands to suggest he means no offense. “I’m just saying. Wouldn’t have believed it if you hadn’t said anything.”

“Why,” Tim asks, suspicious. In the past, it didn’t matter than he’d never told anybody--people _knew,_ or were told and _believed._

“Well, I’d have waited for you to say something.” Raylan smiles like he knows he’s said something clever. “You know, you can tell me… whatever. Anything.”

Tim frowns. “‘Cause we’re _friends?_ ”

“‘Cause I’m stuck in this car with you and bored out of my fuckin’ mind.” Raylan turns, instead, to the mechanics of Tim’s omission. All the women Raylan sleeps with seem to _literally follow him into work._ Tim’s been quiet as a church mouse, yet deceitful as Chaucer’s Pardoner. 

In Raylan’s experience, nothing worth having is had in silence. “How do you keep something like that quiet?”

“Don’t talk about it in cars with co-workers,” Tim reasons simply. 

“Don’t talk about it at all, I suppose.” 

“Now you’re getting it.” Tim chews his lip, eyes the view as they approach Baton Rouge. “You ever--uh. Been to the coast here?”

Raylan smirks, amused with Tim’s poor effort to stray from the topic of conversation. He doesn't even need to say so--Tim looks ready to throw himself into traffic. 

“Jesus Christ,” Tim mutters, then falls quiet. 

“Hey,” Raylan starts in again, much to Tim’s dismay. “Sorry about what I said last night.” At Tim’s blank expression, Raylan explains: “Sending winky faces to Chris… didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“Oh," Tim says. He hadn’t given the comment a second thought. Raylan is obviously trying to think back to anything he might have said or done to contribute to Tim’s silence, and twelve hours is as far as he got. Tim supposes he ought to appreciate the effort, but more than anything he finds it funny, and attempts to reply in turn: "Well, I was. Sending him winky faces.” Tim finally cracks a small smile. “Chris fucking hates it.”

Raylan laughs soundlessly. It’d just be called a grin but he’s biting his tongue and stifling something genuine. 

“So what do you usually go for?” It’s asked some time later, another from the mountain of questions Raylan suddenly has. He draws them in greedily, like split earth colliding and raising ominous peaks.

Tim deadpans, “Cock and balls, I thought we covered this.”

But Raylan presses the issue, goads Tim playfully for an answer. 

Tim tries, “My cable guy’s alright?”

“And that helps me tremendously, Tim, because your cable guy has been on multiple covers of Entertainment Weekly. Much obliged.” Raylan rolls his eyes and continues: “George Clooney? Tom Cruise? Denzel Washington? You saw that new Star Trek half a dozen times. Who’s in that--Cucumbersnatch?”

“I find myself more into a David Duchovny, Mark Ruffalo spectrum.” Tim says it dull, dry, his go-to tone for a joke. Raylan hears that but dismisses it, treats the comment like the gospel truth. 

"Kinda dirty and lived in. I get it."

Tim can’t even stand to look at Raylan after that. He knows he’s grinning a mile wide. 

"Fuck,” Tim says. “I wish I wasn't fucking driving, 'cause I need a drink."

"You can have one," Raylan shrugs.

Tim doesn't reply, either because he is stalwart about not drinking on the job, or because he can never have just one drink. 

“You wanna climb on out of my ass long enough to get lunch?” Tim asks.

“So yours ain’t a full service asshole,” Raylan quips. 

Tim near about drives into oncoming traffic.

\- 

They stop to eat at a little barbecue joint by the side of the road. Raylan claims he has a good feeling about it, and Tim’s willing to risk food poisoning to avoid potential vehicular manslaughter. But the meat is tender and sweet, layered thick on toasted buns, and they rest against the front hood of the Jeep, eating contentedly. Napkins are layered under sweaty cans of soda atop the hood, or else stuffed distractedly into jeans pockets. The sun has long disappeared behind cloud cover, but the wind is picking up so much that Raylan ditches his hat into the front seat of the Jeep.

A lone picnic table sits just beyond the shack, but the Marshals know better than to squander any opportunity to stretch their legs.

Raylan relaxes against the Jeep, denim jacket open to reveal an unbuttoned checkered shirt and beneath that, a snug white henley. Tim thinks he looks like a menswear ad before the industry started advertizing only to women, idealizing how the men in their lives _should_ be dressed. Raylan is comfort and confidence and verifiable _cool._ Tim doesn’t share this impression, of course. They can joke about his _serviceable asshole,_ but Tim draws the line at paying Raylan a compliment.

“Shit,” Tim says. He’s flicks the GPS tracker, but the green dot indicating Boyd’s position remains stagnant. He puts down his sandwich and takes up the device in its place. 

“If you’re about to tell me you’re a vegetarian, too, I really don’t know you.”

“Fuck you,” Tim says, genuinely offended by the insinuation. He takes another bite of his second barbeque sandwich and says through a mouthful: “They’re in New Orleans.”

“Yeah,” Raylan shrugs, and runs a handful of napkins over his face. “Boyd and I went once. Everybody talks crazy like him, he loves it.”

“So you’re saying he might be there a while?” Tim asks, looking thoughtful. “Think we got time for something?”

Raylan raises his eyebrows. 

“Fuck you twice.”

They wrap up their sandwiches and abandon the highway for narrow backgrounds, eventually arriving at some lone stretch of gravelly beach. It’s ugly, and not just for the season. Raylan can’t imagine the place looking any better in the sunlight, neither. The water is about as gray as the sky, and where there aren’t rocks the ground is littered with weeds and debris. 

But it’s the coast, nonetheless, and Tim seems excited to see it. Raylan buys two overpriced beers from a nearby convenience store and they just stand in the cold sand and watch the violent waves rise up, then crash down against one another. 

Tim’s smile is so wide it looks to come unhinged. 

“It’s the Gulf,” Raylan says, perhaps needlessly--perhaps not. “You know that, right? It ain’t the ocean.”

Tim shoots him a look that reads as a cross between, _Of course I fucking know it’s not the ocean,_ and _Don’t ruin this for me. It looks like the fucking ocean._ And Raylan has to admit, too, that the sight is impressive. As far along as the horizon, a heavy cloud rests like a dark reflection of the Gulf’s waters. The dark clouds writhe and swell before their eyes, but somehow still manage to look like something grim and ancient. 

“So… Mark.” Raylan speaks without pretense or cause; it’s nothing Tim has said that prompts this question, just Raylan’s own quiet thinking. “You and him…?” 

Tim’s expression deflates. Everything from his smile to the brightness in his eyes disappears into the hardened expression Tim reserves for staring listlessly at his computer screen. “Is this fun for you? You didn’t even know him.”

“I mean no offense. Just. Sorry. If that was the case.” Raylan speaks resolutely, because he knows if there’s even the slightest hint of truth to the suggestion, Tim deserves to hear another’s condolences. “I’m real sorry, Tim.” 

Raylan knows what it’s like to lose a loved one. No matter the circumstance, there’s an all-consuming guilt that settles in, and builds itself up like a tumor along the walls of the heart. There’s the inescapable feeling that you were responsible for their happiness, even if whatever shared was short-lived or messy or doomed from the start. It’s because some small part of you loved them, you think the least you can do is protect them. 

The wind carries the spray of the salty waters into their faces. The smell inundates their clothes and hair, but it’s welcome if only for its novelty.

“Why can’t I know?” Raylan asks simply when Tim doesn’t answer him. “If you don’t trust me to lie for you, that’s one thing. If you don’t trust me at all…” Raylan shakes his head. “I think you’re a talented guy. Hardworking. Smart, where it counts. I trust you completely. There’s nobody in our office I’d rather have at my back.”

Tim looks at him sidelong and withering, with an expression on his face that seems to ask, _Are you going to laugh?_

“You held it together,” Tim eventually allows, when Raylan doesn’t so much as smirk.

“It was so hard,” Raylan agrees, his face like stone.

“Fuck,” Tim grins, defeated. _He_ thinks it’s funny, anyway. He chews the inside of his lip, uncertain. 

Maybe his sudden inclination to speak is because alone on this beach, all color drained from the sky and earth, himself and Raylan posed as two figures pressed against an enormous body of water, Tim feels distanced from the realities back in Kentucky. No vile outlaw is threatening him, here. No Chief Deputy badgers him about some nonexistent girlfriend. Here, his jaw doesn’t hurt from the constant grinding down and settling of his expectations. 

Or maybe he does trust Raylan, like he should.

When it all starts spilling out, Tim thinks about Jimmy, and how easily he told him such personal truths. But Raylan doesn’t listen wide-eyed and awed like Jimmy. He doesn’t hang on Tim’s every word like some uncovered gospel. Raylan is interested, yes, but there is a baser understanding here that this is wholly for Tim’s benefit, not Raylan’s. 

“Mark was weird,” Tim starts. “He had girlfriends, mostly. And then me. I don’t think he even liked what we did so much as… he liked me a lot.” While speaking, Tim realizes he’s literally never said these words aloud before, so he grants himself some leeway for their poor delivery. “I don’t know. Maybe it was just his dad, his church. John found out. Caught us. Mark just laughed it off, but,” Tim waits out a particularly strong gust of wind. It sends the tails of Raylan’s unbuttoned shirt spinning, as well as catches itself in Tim’s sweatshirt hood. “Then he told a bunch of the guys I… was. Didn’t deign to tell ‘em how he knew.” Tim almost smiles at that, because it damn near drove him up the wall at the time: how anyone could hear Mark’s commentary on Tim, and not conflate the two. “Then it came time that I should leave the service. Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You wanted to stay in the military? For--what. Your whole life?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, quick and easy and honest. “The rest of it, anyway.” It’s an important distinction, Tim thinks. 

“And you left because…” 

Tim stares. He’ll answer Raylan’s questions now, in deference to the respect Raylan has shown him, but he won’t spoonfeed the guy.

“I told you all my shit,” Raylan reasons. “What’s the harm?”

This is the part of the story Tim hates the most, if only because nowhere in its telling is Tim proactive. He is not brave, he does not fight. If it sounds like a tale of out-and-out defeat, it’s because Tim knows there’s no polishing a turd.

The wind dies down as if to give Tim the stage: he can add his defeat to the annals of history, send it far and wide on the backs of cursory waves. 

“It didn’t happen right away. People knew, or suspected, for a couple months. Then shit went nuclear and,” _and it had nothing to do with me,_ Tim thinks, but looking back knows that never once mattered. “A couple guys died on a string of bad ops. Bad intel, dumb shit that just seemed to roll downhill and catch us all off guard.” Tim finds that he still has the bottle of beer in his hand, and finishes it off. “A guy killed himself. People were angry. If guys didn’t have a problem with me before, they did then. Just something-- _one._ To be mad at.”

After answering, Tim realizes it sounds clean and simple. Even hearing himself now, Tim detects beaten-down acceptance. There was none, at the time. He was angry. He wanted nothing more than to be forgiven for what he was and allowed to stay, but burned a few too many bridges and ultimately slashed his own odds. He stifled himself, but it never read as anything more than that. It was quietly infuriating: no matter what he _did_ or _didn’t do,_ they wouldn’t have him back. 

It took him a while--a few months back stateside, a job in construction he saw as dead-end after the first week, and finally his foray into Glynco and the U.S. Marshals Service--but now when Tim thinks of his military service, it’s past tense. He _was_ a U.S. Army Ranger. 

He retains the skillset, naturally, which proves helpful when his Marshal work boasts similar tools and goals. Further, there is still pride to take in his accomplishments, and fondness for the memories because, despite everything, he loved being a soldier. And maybe--more than he’d like to admit--there’s the time. Tim can’t imagine dismissing a decade of his life. If he’d wanted to do that, he’d take up smoking again. 

The same goes for all that’s bottled into his service: he works to keep the anger and fear associated with his previous life there, in the past. He’s more than made up for his decade-long dry spell, into which Mark was his only oasis. But the _silence_ \--long before it became a compulsion, Tim believed he was being _smart._

He still believes that, else he wouldn’t feel so stupid, now. 

“Whatever,” he finishes, determined not to sound bitter. “It happened.” 

Raylan nods. “As shit tends to do,” he says. The dark clouds roll in closer, and it starts to rain.

"Let me drive for a while,” Raylan says when they start back towards the Jeep. "I don't mind."

Tim takes the offer to mean that he can have another beer, which he does. 

\- 

After delays, traffic, and worsening weather, it proves a late night.

Raylan glances over at Tim, who at their previous stop outside of Houston returned to driving duty. His look is still that pinched number from earlier, twisting regret overlayed with spiritless resignation. Glowing red light from some roadside dive bar illuminates the side of Tim’s face, catching his every eyelash and outlining the hard expression on his face. Raylan can’t tell if he’s outright pouting or not; it may just be the natural set of his face. 

“We should cross the border tomorrow,” Tim says. He’s conscious of being stared at and figures he might as well answer for the attention. The GPS receiver shows Boyd calling it a night in the city of El Campo, and Tim does the same. “If the weather holds.” 

It's a long day, a slow day and--after Tim's revealing quip and subsequent meltdown--unusually quiet. 

Their second hotel isn't as nice as the first, but neither man wants more than a warm bed and a hot shower. It's only Raylan who takes up the latter. He thinks Tim will use the opportunity to undress and get into bed, but he is mistaken. He's put the TV on and is stood, fully dressed, at the window. He's pulled back the curtain to reveal dark, heavy skies and a steady stream of rain. Raylan sits on his bed and doesn't bother covering up any more than his towel permits. On Tim’s bed, the laptop is open and receiving the GPS tracker’s data. 

Raylan stares for a moment, confused. “Shit. You see this?”

Turn turns, then abruptly looks to the ceiling. “Jesus Christ, your balls? Yeah, I can see ‘em from here.” 

Raylan closes his legs an inch. 

“No, idiot. The GPS thing.” Raylan yanks the device away from the laptop, and in his head can hear Chris’ desperate cry of, _Eject! Eject the device first!_ Raylan studies the thing, then moves to show it to Tim. “Does that look normal to you?” 

The green dot they’ve come to associate with Boyd Crowder’s truck is on the move. Tim watches it, dumbfounded, as the dot goes offroad. He jerks his phone from his pocket and punches at the screen. 

“What the fuck, Jimmy? Are you back on the road?”

Jimmy doesn’t answer immediately, and Tim rightly presumes he’s excusing himself from Boyd’s company. “No, we stopped,” he says, his voice still low. “We’re at a motel.”

“ _Shit._ ” Tim gestures for Raylan to pass him the GPS receiver. “Tracker’s come loose. Fucking thing.” 

“I’ll help you look--” Jimmy starts, but Tim cuts him off.

“Stay where you are,” Tim instructs. “And keep Boyd inside the motel. We’ll find the tracker ourselves.” He breathes out through his nose, frustrated. “I’ll be in touch.” 

When Tim turns back around, device still in hand, Raylan is pulling on his jeans--and stark naked, otherwise. 

"Are we not fucked?" Raylan asks. Still, he means to ready for action. 

"The tracker itself is waterproof," Tim says, then turns over the handheld receiver in his hands. “This, not so much."

The sound of rain crashing against their hotel window very nearly drowns him out. 

"Not it," Raylan says, raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony of wind, rain, and the odd tree branch hitting the side of the hotel. 

"God _damnit._ " Tim pulls on his jacket and zips it to the throat. Outside, a crack of lightning rips through the sky and colors the cityscape an eerie gray. 

On the bed, Raylan’s forgone his button-down and hat in favor of dressing quickly in only his boots, jeans, henley and jacket. He secures his sidearm to his belt, and looks at Tim expectantly. Tim digs through his bag and finds a ball cap--as if it’ll withstand a tropical storm--and dons it. The hood of his sweatshirt comes up next. On the whole, it’s a look that will disguise him well enough, but inevitably carry water. 

They leave the hotel room and retreat to their vehicle, ducking inside against a torrential swell of rain and wind. Raylan hopes their luck will hold and the device will remain stagnant, but given the fact that he can barely hold himself upright, has his doubts. 

They drive for almost half an hour--twice flashing their badges to cops instructing them to get out of the streets--before they find an abandoned construction lot stretching two blocks. They pass the place several times, and determine the device is caught somewhere among the fallen beams, slabs of concrete, and dug-in earth.

Tim entrusts Raylan with his cell phone and the GPS receiver. 

“Keep these dry,” he says, then steps out into the storm.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few hiccups, Raylan and Tim reach Mexico!

Tim steps out of the Jeep and into nearly four inches of running water. It soaks the bottoms of his jeans and fills his shoes almost immediately. Tim has to fight against the defeatist feeling that fills his gut, the one that tells him _this is impossible._ He flicks on a flashlight he’d brought from home and stashed in the Jeep. He’d wedged it under the passenger seat (and, seeing this, it passes Raylan's mind that maybe _that's_ the reason he couldn't lean his seat back). He shines it across the space, noting the various piping and wooden beams emerging from the flooded waters. There's little else--no partial building frame to be conscious of--so Tim puts any fear of being struck with something from overhead out of his mind.

He uses the flashlight to observe the top of the water, but figures if the device did travel this way and is lodged somewhere in this space, it’s likely caught on something below the surface. 

He takes great steps into the lot, careful of anything that might lurk below the stalled water. The streets are verifiable streams, but what’s trapped in the lot is largely still--only sloshing back and forth around Tim’s ankles. After several steps, Tim sinks into nearly a foot of muddy water. It’s collected here, draining from the entire street and into the dug-out portion of the lot intended as a future building’s cement foundation. Tim can imagine the device being stuck on some machinery or abandoned building materials. He knows he won’t find it with a flashlight and keen eyesight alone. Once he's trudged his mud-coated legs to the farthest corner of the lot, a place where the water crashes against the brick sides of two adjacent buildings, Tim drops to his hand and knees and begins to search on all fours. He puts the flashlight between his teeth and bites gently to keep the beam of light steady. He palms down the walls until he feels the gravel and earth. He searches blindly for the plastic device with the rubber band. 

The GPS tracker is about the size of a wristwatch, and similarly shaped. And unlike in the movies, there’s no shining red light or pinging beacon to guide his way. 

The winds change direction and Tim fights the impulse to shut his eyes against the piercing air. The water seems to spit upwards, and he catches a lot of it in his open mouth. It's bitter-tasting, but Tim knows if he gags, he’ll drop the flashlight. He lets the filthy water splash into his mouth and out, although he inevitably swallows his fair share. 

The corner proves empty--save for some nails and a floating plank of wood. Tim moves on along the side of the building, hands searching all the while. When he reaches the street and the water is rushing past him freely, Tim begins to lose hope. Raylan’s still sat in the jeep, face pale in the glow of the GPS receiver. 

The thing hasn’t moved, and hope isn't lost.

Tim spends another twenty minutes searching along the surrounding buildings. His next point of interest is the collection of building materials near the center of the lot. Searching there means sinking further into the muddied waters. A bolt of lightning strikes some ways away, but illuminates everything on the block. Raylan honks the horn at Tim, but whether his meaning is _hurry_ or _give up,_ he doesn't exit the Jeep to make this known. 

When Tim gets to the center of the lot and again positions himself for searching, he finds that the water is much higher than expected. He sinks deep, and feels the water rush up and into his jacket and hoodie, soaking both from the inside out. At this, Tim finally recognizes that not only is this water filthy and in no short supply, but _cold,_ too. He bites a little harder on the flashlight, and continues fumbling around. Another bolt of lightning breaks across the sky, its splintered design an alien hand reaching for some sorry target. Thunder rolls as the flash lingers.

Around the construction site, Tim finds bricks, nails, and a few stones, still buried in the earth but coming loose now. There’s some junk, too--metal scrapings by the stinging in Tim’s hand after he’s done discovering them. 

The rain intensifies, pounding the back of Tim's head like a railroad spike, driving in the relentless ache. Absently, Tim thinks about how many more headaches he has now than he ever did, growing up. They start at the backs of his eyes and then spread, following the curve of his skull into a verifiable cap, pulled tighter and tighter until even his ears feel hot and harried. Sometimes Tim thinks he can pinpoint the exact place the pain spreads from, then ultimately retreats to. It's a perverse fantasy of his, to one day visit a specialist and point-- _here, just here_ \--to what is certainly a brain tumor or a wayward piece of shrapnel. 

(Tim continues to put off the visit. He wants to be certain of the placement, or else it won't be as cool as he imagines.)

While his mind wanders, Tim's hand bumps something smooth. He grips it tight, explores it blindly, and realizes it's not another rock. 

Tim attacks the thing with both hands, sinking deeper into the water until all his wrestling breaks the thing free from beneath some twisted plumbing. He wipes away the mud and steadies the flashlight. Amidst rain, lightning, gale force winds, and mud so thick Tim thinks he’s actually lost a shoe in it a half hour ago--he hits paydirt. 

He trudges up out of the muck and makes a beeline toward the Jeep. Raylan props open his door and Tim climbs in. 

“Glad this is just a rental,” Raylan says as Tim brings his rank, wet, and muddied self down on the fine upholstery. 

“J-just--” Tim stops, wholly in disbelief that he’s actually stuttering. He manages to grit out his message, unmarred: “Just. Call. Jimmy.”

\- 

They plan to meet at a nearby Urgent Care facility, but Jimmy mistakenly drives around looking for the city hospital. It’s almost half an hour before they cross paths outside a nameless little outfit in a strip mall, doubling for a methadone clinic. 

It has a plastic awning, though, which is more shielding from the rain than Tim’s seen all night.

And again, Raylan is satisfied just waiting in the Jeep.

“Did it go down a sewer?” Jimmy asks--practically screams--over the rain and wind at their backs. Tim ducks in closer, and Jimmy does the same. 

“You got to put it back on his car.” 

Tim presses the device into Jimmy’s hands, but Jimmy doesn’t grasp it. He’s wary, and rightfully so. Not interfering with an investigation is one thing; participating in and contributing to its success is another. 

Jimmy doesn’t say much--he shifts and mumbles, tries on a few half-formed objections, a couple weak _is there no other way?_ s and, eventually, miserable silence. 

Seeing how genuinely torn up Jimmy is about furthering his betrayal of Boyd, Tim inches closer. He laces his fingers together with Jimmy’s, trapping the GPS tracker between their palms. The contact, though unexpected, is not unwanted. Jimmy can hardly feel the rain for the heavy pounding in his veins. Tim’s thumb is rubbing a smooth, cold circle along Jimmy’s wrist.

Tim tells him, "Listen. I'm in 403 at the Marriott. If you want."

When they pull apart, Jimmy is the one left holding the GPS tracker. His eyes are wide with a kind of terror Tim knows well.

The ride back to the hotel with Raylan is made in complete silence--save for the swearing as they dodge fallen tree branches, flooded streets, and downed traffic lights.

It’s the first time Tim returns to the hotel and actually undresses. 

Against sideways rain, his jacket was of little help, and Tim yanks it off somewhere between the hotel lobby and the door to their room. Beneath it, his hoodie and shirt are soaked through. The former is heavy, its color gone from charcoal gray to pitch black. When Tim wrestles it off, it hits the floor with an audible _thud._ The shirt requires more finesse. Tim twists and pulls at the thin fabric, digs his fingers under the hem, and eventually clears the shirt over his head. It squelches like a cheap sci-fi monster when Tim drops it onto the growing pile of sodden clothes. His jeans come next and without hesitation.

He stands stripped and bare, all pale skin pinched with an unnatural pink from the cold. His cheeks and lips didn’t fair well against the wind, and are tender and red. His hair is plastered to his forehead, the ends curling. There’s some secluded spot on the top of his head--hidden under the layer of ball cap and hoodie--that remains dry, but on the whole it is alone in that respect. Forehead to feet, Tim is soaked. Even his boxer shorts are slick and stuck to his thighs.

He’s got pronounced biceps and enough definition to suggest he works out as a hobby, and lean legs that say he runs as a compulsion. There’s chest hair where Raylan prefers a clean shave, and a heavily inked design over his heart. Because of the cold--or his own sense of decency (which, admittedly, is the least likely of the two)--Tim crosses his arms over his chest, obscuring Raylan’s view.

His right hand is fisted, but finally unclenches in an effort to accept the towel Raylan throws at him. It opens sticky and red, and Tim vaguely remembers a stabbing pain while searching the lot for the tracking device. It hardly seemed memorable, against the constant barrage of hard rain and piercing winds. Tim inspects the gash. It’s long and ugly, a split line clear across the flesh of his palm--but ultimately superficial. It’s only a small addition to what remains on his face: the yellowed discoloration of healing bruises along his jaw and right eye socket, the still-prominent cut along the bridge of his nose. 

“You up to date on your shots?" Raylan asks lightly. 

“Just got dewormed last month." The comment comes quick, but Tim’s senses remain dull. He stares at the open cut on his hand, and feels nothing. In the constant cold, it’s like the limb has somehow atrophied.

“I was thinking along the lines of tetanus.” 

At the moment, Tim looks like a sneeze could topple him over.

Raylan produces Tim's phone from his pocket, but doesn't hand it over. "Take a shower. I can mind the phone."

Tim looks uncertain. To prove his point, Raylan slides a thumb over the screen and shows Tim the call log menu.

"He hasn't called."

"Yet," Tim adds. He thinks about waiting for his prediction to be borne out, but the notion of a hot shower proves too great a necessity. 

As much as he’d like to, Tim doesn’t dally; he rinses away the rain and mud, but doesn’t soak his limbs like he wants to. It’s as much a chore to leave the steaming warmth of the shower as it was sticking out an hour in a tropical storm.

Tim has no hips to speak of, so when he emerges from the bathroom, the towel wrapped around his waist is also fisted in one hand, secured. He is a healthier pink, now. The color in his cheeks is from warmth, not some freezing shock to his system. Tim notices his wet clothes are gone, but Raylan informs him he's sent them with a maid to be laundered. He doesn't mention to hefty tip he paid to ensure they are returned that night. 

Tim nods and means to thank Raylan, but his attention to lost to his cell phone, which remains silent on the bed.

"He still hasn't called." 

Tim nods again, then moves to sit on the bed. Just shy of ass-to-comforter, the hotel phone rings. Tim snatches it up in an instant--it's heavy, and his numb hands aren't used to the weight. He nearly beams himself in the head with it.

"Jimmy?" he answers, and then is silent.

“It’s done," Jimmy tells him. His voice is steady, and Tim supposes that's because they're no longer trying to be heard over the crush of torrential rains. “Like. I did it. The thing.”

Tim listens a while longer, hears Jimmy mumble about wanting to come in person, but not believing he could get away again without raising questions. Tim ends the call with a simple, "Thank you." He wasn’t sure that he hadn’t fucked the entire operation until just now. 

“Jimmy came through," he tells Raylan. 

Raylan frowns; of that, he had little doubt. Who else but some smitten kid would willingly step outside into a tropical storm, wait stupidly at the wrong goddamn clinic, just to do a favor for a U.S. Marshal, terms undiscussed? But the call itself remains a mystery. 

“How’s he know what room we’re in?” Raylan asks. Really, there’s only one answer to that.

“I told him he could come up," Tim admits. He wipes a hand over his hair, letting the excess water drain down his neck and back. “Guessed he wouldn’t. He didn’t. So, it’s fine.” 

Raylan tries to get his head around that one. "What were you gonna do if he took up the offer?" He keeps his tone mild, despite the fact that some particularly disturbing details are becoming clear.

As hard as Raylan tries to hide it, Tim hears the insinuation. He answers accordingly: "I guess I'd politely ask you to step outside. Then I'd hold his hand 'til he understood that by this point, he’s already betrayed Boyd, and if he wants to stay alive he’s gotta work for me.” Tim registers the flat look on Raylan's face, the one that reads like he’s trying very hard not to snort in disbelief, and adds, “And maybe I’d blow him, ‘cause ain’t that just a hard pill to swallow?”

Raylan stares at Tim, which gives Tim an opportunity to stare back. Raylan's dry, save for some speckling on his shoulders where the rain caught him exiting and returning to the hotel. His long hair is whipped up in a frenzy. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“What’s it matter to you, anyway?”

Raylan supposes it doesn’t, but the entire situation is coming to rub him the wrong way. “That boyfriend of yours okay with this?”

“It ain’t like that,” Tim says, and hates himself for how pitiful the defense sounds.

“Take it from someone who’s been married, divorced, and everything in between. It’s always like that, for someone.”

“You don’t know shit about it.” 

Tim feels heavy. He knows the ache of a body after exertion, the feeling that every cell is alive and every drop of blood pumping, but this isn’t that feeling. More accurately, he feels beaten down and tired, and not necessarily by the rain and the elements. 

He thinks the cause rests with Raylan. Raylan, who knows one shitty thing and doesn’t stop to think maybe it’s just one feature in some grander design. Tim wants to expose the vision, then tear it down. He imagines the stupid smile on his face when he slipped up earlier-- _boyfriend,_ he’d said, simple and easy, like it was true. Cutting down Raylan means cutting down himself, he supposes. But Tim’s always got that blade sharp and ready.

“You know why Jack’s my boyfriend?” he asks, face alight with that same dopey look, now made sinister by its own awareness. “‘Cause we live in the same city and ain’t out to nobody. So we fuck, and then we don’t have some shitty conversation after.” 

Raylan doesn’t look particularly surprised, or embarrassed for Tim’s answer, or sorry for having asked. He doesn’t have much of an expression at all. 

Tim continues, as if wanting to provide Raylan with further proof: “I was the last one he called about his new job, ‘cause I matter less than a dozen other people.” 

It’s a fairly damning truth, and even though Tim’s spent the past six months living it, feels its weight now that someone else is privy to it. Tim smiles, stupid and erratic. It’s his sweet, tight-lipped version that crinkles his eyes and smooths his forehead. It almost looks real. 

“What else am I supposed to call him? We ain’t even friends.” 

Raylan--at least--blinks at that. “Well, alright. And to think you didn’t want to talk about it.” 

Tim rubs his forehead and wishes he had a drink. 

Raylan glances thoughtfully at the phone, then says: "Jimmy's not a dumb kid. We haven't arrested him a half dozen times, like all the rest. What's he really thinking he's getting out of this?"

"He ain't dumb," Tim agrees. "But he's desperate, and that's worse."

And as for the answer Tim has for Raylan’s question--Tim doesn’t want to say.

Raylan presses, “How far are you gonna take this?”

“He’s pretty cute,” Tim says, but realizes Raylan isn’t in a joking mood. Tim wonders where the complete 180 regarding his personal life and inclinations came from. The comments, from Tim’s end, are said with derision. It’s as though Tim means to punish Raylan, to disgust him, all under the inflated reasoning of _Well, you asked._ He answers honestly: “I want this done, and I don’t care how.” 

Hearing those words--and all they might imply--is enough to cow Tim’s confidence. He scrubs his face, pushes the wet hair from his eyes. “I need a fucking drink.” 

Raylan leans over the bed and grabs his discarded jacket. From under it, he produces a plastic bag. “Picked something up from the corner store while you were promising Jimmy a new life on a farm upstate.” 

“I ain’t gonna shoot him,” Tim says.

Raylan pulls a bottle of bourbon from the bag, and sets it triumphantly on the small table positioned between their beds. He leaves the main space, then returns from the bathroom with two plastic cups. He sits on his bed, facing Tim, and distributes the contraband. Their knees brush when Raylan leans forward to pass Tim a full cup. 

He watches as Tim downs a healthy sum in one go. Raylan does the same. 

“Got you something else, too.” He empties the plastic bag to reveal a slightly damp young adult novel. It’s some new shit, the concept a verifiable Mad Lib drawn from every apocalyptic, fantastical, and Dracula-lite drivel on the shelves, pressed together and flavored with just enough virginal teen romance to merit casting a thirty-year-old in the inevitable film adaptation.

“Figured I’d do the driving tomorrow,” Raylan says by way of an explanation. If he means it to be a joke, Tim beats him to the punch line. 

“I’ve already read this one,” Tim says, but accepts the book. He trades Raylan his empty cup for it.

Raylan pours Tim another and says, “Gotta admit, not a good feeling being judged by the convenience store clerk for my purchases.”

“Bourbon and a fantasy novel. Now you know how I feel.”

The alcohol burns in their stomachs, warming them from the inside out. Drinking more seems not only right, but necessary. They breeze through half the bottle before saying another word. 

“You’re right,” Raylan tells him. “I don’t know how it is.”

Tim groans, “I need to shut my fucking mouth.”

“You don’t,” Raylan says, firm. 

“Thanks,” Tim returns, but doesn’t look at Raylan when he says it. 

Tim has the unmistakable urge to tell Raylan how it really is, to convey that--despite all evidence to the contrary--being gay is one of the few things Tim is actually okay with, even marginally likes about himself. In the right venue--a club or a bar, in Tim’s experience--he’s adept. He can smile and flirt and is not lacking for company, when he wants it. Men _like_ him. For as meager as his relationship is with Jack, there’s still the physical attraction to keep them sated. 

Rather, what weighs on him is the response of others. What closets him is the imagined responsibility he holds for their conclusions. 

It’s hard to explain, which is why Tim finds himself unable to even try. He’s chosen the work environments that he has--themselves hyper-masculine and predominantly male--and it _looks_ a certain way, or so Tim’s been told. It’s escapist or it’s predatory, the ideal or the absurd. It’s the enthusiasm showed when someone he’s gone home with discovers his dog tags, and yet the hostility that drove him out of that world in the first place. 

He reasons the military and the U.S. Marshal service emphasize brotherhood and justice, two concepts Tim values above all else--even his own desires. Over the years, Tim has convinced himself he’s happiest when the two sides are separate. It even _feels_ that way, most of the time.

He worries that to say so would sound contrived. He already doesn’t want to Have A Conversation About It, and stating his case might sound too much like taking an argumentative side. Tim eyeballs the bottle of bourbon Raylan bought, and decides there isn’t enough alcohol to get him started, let alone feed the follow-through.

“So what was it, then. With you and Winona.” 

Even to use Raylan’s ex-wife as a distraction, Tim can’t pretend he isn’t a little bit interested. Winona is smart, beautiful, and smells nice. Raylan wouldn’t fuck that up if he could help it.

Raylan gets this look on his face-- _Oh, hell. Not this again._ It only takes him a second to realize that, for as much as he ponders the subject himself, he hasn’t made Winona a topic of conversation in all the years they’ve been apart. He can’t say all the things he’s been saying to himself, and hasn’t yet readied a line for public consumption. He settles on something with more truth than he’d intended, saying, “There was too much between us.” 

It’s an apt catch-all for their deteriorating marriage, but Raylan supposes he owes a little more to Tim, who has had to be more forward than he might prefer, as of late. “We knew all the awful shit about the other, the kind you’d rather keep to yourself.” Raylan sits up and pours himself another helping. “Lie to and deceive your loved ones, Tim. That one’s for free.”

Tim raises his glass. “Thanks, I’ll cherish it always.”

Raylan smiles, kind of drunk and really stupid. “Guess you must have heard that one.”

Tim smiles too because-- _shit._ After fumbling around in a goddamn tropical storm, searching for something no larger than a ping-pong ball in 70mph winds and piercing rain, what’s coming out? 

“Only from that little voice inside my head,” he drawls, and pours himself a refill to match Raylan’s. “All these years, who’d have thought it was you?”

Tim’s eyes are bright and teasing.

Raylan makes himself comfortable leaning against his bed’s polished headboard. A stack of pillows ease his way. Tim, meanwhile, holds position: sat on the side of his bed, facing Raylan. Raylan’s fully dressed, but Tim is just in a towel, still wet and dripping, but finally warm. 

“You lie to your parents?” Raylan asks. His attention is on the ceiling, not Tim. 

Tim shakes his head. “No, not to start. I wasn’t a very smart kid,” he admits, then smiles tightly. “But I learned.” 

“Yeah. You hide in plain sight.” Raylan adjusts his pillows and passes Tim the GPS receiver while he’s at it, figuring Tim wants to catalogue the warped data. He waits, expectant, but Tim doesn’t set up the laptop again. Raylan supposes they don’t really want that mishap on their record.

Raylan continues, “It makes sense, in retrospect. I feel silly not catching on sooner.”

“ _Catching on sooner,_ ” Tim echoes, doubtful. “Bullshit, I had to flat-out tell you.”

“And you weren’t kidding?” Raylan bites his lip to keep from grinning. “I’m the first person you’ve ever told?”

Shedding light on a decade-old secret is one thing; doing so in just a damp towel is another. Tim puts his bourbon on the bedside table and moves to uncover a clean change of clothes in his bag. He sifts through the extra ammo he brought for his rifle and sidearm, respectively, and finds his clothes underneath. He handles a pair of jeans but decides against them, opting instead for boxers and a long-sleeved shirt. Dressing for readiness is often done to the detriment of his comfort. Tim thinks he’s earned a little taste of the latter.

Raylan’s question, meanwhile, is hanging in the space between them. Tim starts to dress while he answers. “Yeah, I guess. Anyone I… meet, uh, it’s usually understood.” He pulls on the shorts from underneath the towel, first, then shrugs into the shirt. “In the right venue.” 

He starts to fold the towel but stops, leaving it at the foot of the bed because he’s decided he’d rather drink more. 

“What, is there a secret handshake?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, then drops his free hand between his legs and mimes jerking off. “Just that.”

“Well that’s hardly subtle.”

They finish the bottle. 

Which isn’t a wise idea, but they’re both laid out by the end of it, tired and wanting for sleep. Raylan’s kicked off his boots, although the left took his sock, with it. He wrestles a while with his jeans, buttoned like they are and snug. 

“Keep trying. It ain’t pathetic at all.”

“In bed like I am, there’s usually someone to do it for me.”

Raylan’s just drunk enough to make an inviting gesture at Tim. 

Tim’s response is to turn off the lights in the room, forcing Raylan to continue his efforts in the dark.

“I like Jimmy,” Tim grits out each word like he's being made to do so under duress. It's strange to say aloud--the theoretical angle is gone, and Tim’s left with sharing a much finer truth. He doesn’t know which is harder to admit: that he’s gay, or that he’s human. “We’re going to do right by him.” 

Raylan--through all his shit with Boyd and Ava--gets it. 

“Absolutely.” 

Sleep doesn’t elude neither man for long. It envelops them, warm like the bourbon but infinitely more settling. Around two in the morning, however, Raylan stirs from his sleep, something far more pressing at hand. 

“What are you doing?” Tim asks, his voice muffled by the cocoon of blankets he has drawn high over his head. He can’t seem to shake the cold. 

“Gotta take a leak,” Raylan answers, and disappears into the bathroom to rid himself of a particularly juvenile boner. He hasn’t had a wet dream since he was a teenager, back before he started sleeping with women regularly. The task at hand wouldn’t suffer his absence for just one night. He guesses Tim would be grateful for it, too. But tonight is already shot, so Raylan files the thought away, pins it neatly between _opportunity_ and _resource_ in the back of his mind.

In the bathroom, he takes matters into his own hands. 

Raylan thinks about Winona, but she’s hundreds of miles away and he’s not had the naughty webcam experience with her yet. He tries to pretend, but can’t help but picture a room done up in pastels and lace, a baby crib featuring prominently.

“Use the secret handshake,” Tim calls out to him. Raylan knows he’s not exactly a mute in these matters, but part of him thinks Tim took a lucky guess. 

\- 

The storm carries on through the night. Tim sleeps soundly through it, less impressed by the dull roar of rain and the hiss of wind with a roof over his head. The skies are still dark even with the sunrise. The last dregs of rain and lightning weaken around ten, and Raylan and Tim are on the road after Boyd by eleven.

True to his word, Raylan drives. 

Tim has his book in his lap, but his attention wavers to the streets, emptied of cars but littered with debris. Shingles from rooftops, tree branches, garbage, and street signs are among the obstacles Raylan takes caution to avoid. Tim doesn’t remind him that he’s not in his precious Lincoln town car, and the Jeep can handle the odd tree branch. But Tim supposes he isn't one to talk; he still avoids plastic bags and take-out bags when driving his beast of an SUV.

They hear on the radio that the National Guard is present in the hardest-hit cities along the coast. Tim changes the station; he’d rather go on being pleased that the roads to Mexico will be open, and their travels through Texas undisturbed. Word of casualties or the injured, then, illudes them. Soon, they reach the border and its crossing is a mere formality; Raylan hardly feels inclined to so much as boast his badge.

In Mexico, it’s quiet. The sky is an eerie, gray sheet hanging just above their heads. Below it, the air is hot and muggy after the storm, but Tim rolls his window down. Raylan does the same. It would only be inconvenient to try and speak, now, and there’s plenty neither man wants to talk about after last night. 

Tim reads and Raylan follows Boyd’s trek to Mexico. Surprisingly enough, he chooses the legal way. Raylan assumes they’ll save the diversion tactics for when they’re driving a convoy of trucks full of cocaine.

Tim has one leg drawn up, the other splayed in the ample legroom afforded by the passenger seat. His right arm is raised up and back, bent slightly so that his hand grips the headrest from behind. He rests the book’s spine against his thigh and seems comfortable despite looking like a pretzel. 

Rather than finish off his book, Tim stares blankly out the window and watches the landscape rolls by. There’s a sprawl of yellow wildflowers lining the side of the road a ways. Unsure of how cold it gets in Mexico, Tim supposes they’ve got longer yet to live. They’re bright as children’s drawings, petals expansive and simple. 

Tim spies the twisted remnants of a car ahead, positioned awkwardly by the side of the road. It looks like the thing sustained a head-on collision--or _didn’t,_ rather. It’s a total lost cause: the headlights are where the front seats should be.

Tim figures from the lack of smoke, fire, or dead bodies littering the street that it’s old damage. Still, the image unnerves him. He thinks about snipers hiding out under the car, readying their shots. He thinks about IEDs, and finds doesn’t have to strain his memory to conjure up an example. 

“Drive around it,” he says, not caring that he sounds crazy. He thinks about how simple this would be if he were driving, and Raylan was asleep in the passenger seat. _Like last time,_ Tim thinks, somewhat guiltily. Alabama was a long ways away. 

Raylan makes a face. “Look, Art told me--”

“Will you just do it?”

“I kind of want to see what you’ll do if I don’t,” Raylan admits. 

Tim unbuckles his seat belt and swings open his car door. 

“Jesus, Tim--” A rush of cool, outside air sweeps through the car. It feels nothing like the artificial work of the A/C unit. It’s more invigorating, and Raylan thinks if ever there’s a time to do something stupid, it’s in a foreign country, with cold air in your lungs. 

Raylan pulls off the road, and drives a wide half-circle around the car. The jeep rolls easily over small shrubs and rocky terrain. When he’s cleared the car and Tim’s imagined blast-zone, he crosses back onto the paved road. 

“Was that so hard?” Tim asks. His expression is needlessly stern; Raylan’s already complied. He’s only left feeling safe, but foolish for having asked. 

Raylan doesn’t say anything. It’s a tailored kind of torment, because Tim prefers to know where he stands with people, even if he doesn’t always make his positions clear for others. 

Tim disappears into his book and Raylan continues his silent treatment. 

About an hour later, both have had enough. 

"It's beautiful country," Raylan says. The sun is just starting to set, and a glare is creeping through the window, giving Raylan cause to recline. 

The landscape is stark and bare, nothing like the sprawling green of Kentucky. 

"Yeah," Tim agrees. The sky is colored in pale blues to honeyed yellows. Where it meets the earth is positively liquid gold. 

"You ever been?"

“Twice. High school trip to Mexico City. Teotihuacan, you know.” 

“Very educational,” Raylan agrees. “Aliens made it, right?”

“You got it,” Tim drawls. “Came back after my first tour. Did the backpacking thing. The backpacking, bedbugs, and head lice thing. Mexico, then a sixty dollar flight to Peru, from there Bolivia, Chile, Argentina…” Tim quirks a small smile, and Raylan’s sure he’s touched on a fond memory. Fonder still, because Tim can hardly remember the details. He just knows it was a wild two months, getting drunk and blowing through his savings, then heading back into a war. 

“Followed a girl around Europe for a while,” Raylan starts in on his own reminiscing. “Didn’t get bedbugs. Crabs, though.” He seems pleased enough with the trade. “Been to Nicaragua once, not by choice. Mexico… a slew of times, back when I was working in the Houston office.”

“And you _still_ don’t speak Spanish?”

Something in the rearview window catches Tim’s attention. It’s another car, but this one is hurtling towards them--even crossing into the opposite lane to pass them. Tim recognizes it for one among the scrum parked at a middle-of-nowhere rest stop some ways back. The car turns, stops, heading them off.

Raylan slows to a stop. Both men have some idea of what to expect, and neither is particularly concerned. 

Raylan turns to Tim with a wide grin on his face. 

“Couple of real desperados,” he says. 

They’re not professionals--for one, they’re dressed as cops. _American cops._ Which, truth be told, might be enough to fool some tourists into handing over their IDs or paying a bribe. Raylan’s smile falters some when he notices the very real sidearms. He readies himself, but in an effort to save themselves the paperwork and clean-up, Tim rolls down his window and flags over one of the men.

He’s tall, skinny. His eyes are large but perpetually half-lidded. Between his strong nose and heavy brows, his face bears an unmistakable intensity.

“Nice badge,” Tim says while flashing his own. “How do you like mine?” He can see in the man’s face that he recognizes his error in selecting this car to stop, but he doesn’t back away from the car. Tim adds, in Spanish: _“If that don’t do it for you, I got a gun.”_

Raylan, not interested in being polite, pulls his. He levels it across Tim and aims at the man’s heart. _“Irse a la mierda,”_ he says. The man turns and runs, crushing into his shorter, stockier cohort in the middle of the road. They both scramble back to their truck. 

Raylan smirks at Tim. “All the Spanish I need.”

Tim is less amused. He shoves Raylan’s arm, forcing him to lower his weapon. “Don’t fucking pull that like I’m not right here. Jesus.” 

Raylan doesn’t holster his piece until the costumed officers haul ass in the other direction. “You nervous around guns all of a sudden?”

“Only when they’re wielded by guys with your record,” Tim grumbles, then tears open his book like he means to aggressively read about the heroine's stirring final battle against the evil spectre forces from the netherworld that have invaded her high school gymnasium.

“That sounds like a poorly crafted lie,” Raylan observes tightly. His record is an impressive achievement as much as it is a warning label. 

“Oh, shit, you caught me. Wave that thing in my face some more. I like it.” 

“Bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Do you _want_ me to start reading out loud again?” Tim threatens. Raylan holds his hands in surrender against the wheel. 

“Just let me know if she goes for the Tristan kid or that Adrian asshole.” 

“If I hurl this thing out the window, you’ll have your answer.” 

\- 

With Mexico spreading out before them, Raylan and Tim find themselves closing in on the city of Monterrey, the cosmopolitan capital of Nuevo León. Resting at the feet of a sweeping mountain range, it’s couched in natural beauty. Boyd Crowder stops somewhere just outside the city limits, while Raylan pushes on and doesn’t stop until the trees and sloping mountains give way to crystalline skyscrapers, a grid of pristine city streets, and towering hotels.

“Are you out of your mind?” Tim asks. “Art chewed me out for emptying the mini bar.”

“As he should. Those things are a racket.” Raylan decides on a particularly opulent hotel, atop which he can spot a rooftop pool.

“This is all part of the job, Tim. And no different from choosing a Best Western over a Motel 6.” Raylan grins a little, pleased with himself. “We’re paying for protection.” 

He points to a sign for a gambling convention hosted in one of the hotel ballrooms, then raises an eyebrow at Tim. “Unless you got more secrets to spring on me. You got a gambling problem?”

“It’s not a problem if you win.”

Raylan pulls around to the front, then motions for the tuxedo-wearing valet to wait a moment. He’s still got some convincing to do. 

“It’s just cause for us to be hanging around here,” Raylan says. “Nothing peculiar about a couple of Americans being stupid with money.”

Tim sighs disapprovingly, but allows of the luxury hotel: “It’s probably got a strong WiFi connection.”

“Tim, you’re a mensch.” Raylan steps partway out of the car, adjusts his hat, and throws the young valet the keys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dag dern, babies, this is going to be one long fic. Comments, critiques, and suggestions are always welcome!


	10. Chapter 10

It’s still early evening when they settle into a suite at a beautiful Monterrey hotel. Raylan feeds the busboy some line about the gambling event downstairs, and considers their asses covered. Tired of following Boyd Crowder’s adventures at a distance, Raylan decides he wants some of his own. He means to enjoy all that is at his disposal in the hotel and the city. For the time being, this includes getting fresh with the vacationing socialite community around the rooftop pool.

“It’s heated,” Raylan assures Tim.

“Oh, good. I was worried.”

Tim joins him in raiding the hotel shopping area, where Raylan buys a miniscule pair of swim trunks and Tim throws in a map, a pre-paid cell phone, and a new book, then puts it all on the company card.

“You ought to come swimming,” Raylan says. In the brief moment he saw Tim half-naked, Raylan doesn’t think he has anything to be shy about. A few nicks and scars, nothing outstanding, just evidence of a life well-lived.

“I think I ought to do my job,” Tim says in a wry tone that suggests he still isn't quite blown over with their choice of hotel. With its tuxedo-clad valets and gown-wearing clientele, it doesn't exactly hit the _subtle_ notes Tim strives for on any stakeout. 

Raylan is confident he'll come to think differently on that front. In his experience, opulence is its own disguise. “Uh-huh. When you get bored, you know where to find me.” 

He gives his purchase a playful tug between both hands.

Regrettably, after transferring the GPS data and pouring over a map of the area Boyd stopped in, Tim finds himself to be tremendously bored. He secures his and Raylan’s firearms in the hotel room safe, then takes his book and cell phone to the pool. The area is lit in pale blues and purples, an imagined moonscape hanging just that much closer to earth. That is, precisely thirty stories. Tim spies Raylan immediately--or, at least part of him. His limbs are draped languidly around the bikini-clad blonde positioned on top of him. Tim is more amused than surprised. _This_ happens to Raylan Givens. Normal things--holes in his socks, coffee stain on his jeans--are unheard of. But being approached by a beautiful woman in a string bikini? Just another Tuesday for Raylan Givens.

Tim supposes it's the trade off Raylan gets for how many hillbillies, drug lords, and crooked cops he encounters trying to put a few extra holes in his head.

They’re only kissing one another--nothing so explicit that the staff asks them to take it to a room or the couples' jacuzzi. Raylan carries on under the woman for a good while longer before spotting Tim. He excuses himself (with multiple promises for his prompt return) and moves to join Tim at the little corner he’s staked out. It’s close enough to the building that he has light to read by. Raylan approaches, tall, lean, and with a swagger that speaks to the cowboy boots, jeans, and hat he isn’t wearing. Tim knows his aren’t the only eyes on the lawman. 

"That bathing suit is really doing the trick," Tim commends. 

Raylan grins; he is entirely shameless. "It ain't hurting matters, none." 

It’s a little black number--emphasis on _little._ Tim likens it best to the censor bar used in television, back in the days before blurring. Tim prefers the black bar technique--and worries that today’s youth are expecting their genitalia to be an indecipherable fleshy nethersphere. 

Tim looks Raylan up and down, suspicious. “You ain’t even wet.”

“I was… swimmin’ in women?”

“Awful,” Tim shakes his head. “Awful.”

“I did swim,” Raylan says. “Couple laps. She offered to dry me off.”

“Raylan Givens,” Tim sing-songs, “This is your life.” 

Raylan sits on the beach recliner next to Tim’s. 

“Whatcha reading there, superstar?” Raylan ducks his head and investigates the cover of Tim's book, then gives Tim a tired look. The text he's selected details the life of a fourteen-year-old Mongolian girl. 

“What fourteen-year-old deserves a memoir?”

“She’s an eagle hunter,” Tim says, not looking up from the page. “Huntress,” he corrects. “Trains them to grab smaller prey. Fed her entire village.” 

“Uh-huh. And that’s the chapter after her first crush, right?”

Tim feels a familiar buzzing in his pocket, and lets Raylan’s comment slide. He gets up from the recliner, nods for Raylan to follow to a more private corner of the rooftop. There, he answers the call and puts it on speaker.

“Hey, Jimmy.” 

“Hey… Tim.”

Jimmy's voice is very distinctly trying for confident, but falls woefully short. 

“We ain’t meeting the guys tomorrow. At least, not on their turf. Boyd called his contact, they told us to wait for their word.” He sucks at his teeth--a nervous, if unattractive, habit. “Boyd’s confident, but. I don’t know. Is this a set up? Do you guys have enough?”

“Your boy’s got cold feet,” Raylan mutters. The comment is intended for Tim but easily overheard by Jimmy. 

“They’re probably going to check you guys out, first," Tim says, purposefully walking along the edge of the roof to escape Raylan's continued commentary. He needs Jimmy confident, not shouldering his own doubts in addition to Tim and Raylan's. "Don’t call me so much, and don’t try and find me.”

“Tall order,” Jimmy says. It’s sort of flirtatious, in a stunted kind of way. Raylan smirks at it, but Tim keeps his expression passive. 

“That’s why I got my best man on it," Tim says, smooth and sweet as honey, before ending the call. Raylan's smirking, shaking his head. He folds his arms across his bare chest.

"It is criminal," Raylan says, "What you're doing to that poor kid."

"He's got a crush. That's it." Tim gives Raylan an appraising look. "You wanna tell me no witness ever got chatty with you because you held her hand and stroked her ego?"

Raylan grins wider.

Tim’s open expression turns narrow and withering. 

“Hey, you said it.” 

Tim tips forward some, ignoring Raylan in favor of the view. From the rooftop they overlook Monterrey. A glittering river intersects the city, golden lights illuminate the streets, and the sky hangs hazily blue, despite the late hour. The mountains are great black figures nestled in the distance. They seem so tremendous, yet Tim doesn’t even recall driving through them. 

“This is a good place to bring Boyd to his knees,” Raylan decides. His voice is tight and serious, and Tim remembers this isn’t necessarily the fantastic revenge plot he’s dreamed up after a night of torment and humiliation. It’s Raylan’s game more than anyone’s, built up over decades, and Tim is just along to see that it gets done. 

Raylan surveys the city a while longer, then gives a single nod. “Always thought it’d be Kentucky, but this’ll do just fine.”

Tim adopts the same serious tone. “Always thought you’d be wearing clothes.”

“Swimming attire,” Raylan says, gesturing loosely, “Are clothes.” 

“Clothes… plural?” 

“Learn English, ingrate.”

“Your new friend speak English?” Tim asks, turning slightly to better see the approaching blonde in the equally miniscule _swimming attire._

“...all the vowels,” Raylan says. The moment of severity may be lost, but Raylan spares Tim a look that confirms he means to use this opportunity to fell Boyd and make his crimes known. Then, Raylan claps Tim on the shoulder and returns to the open arms of warmer company. 

Tim doesn’t see Raylan again that night, but instead of thinking the worst he presumes the best. In his absence, Tim sleeps well, but wakes especially early--his internal wake-up clock overly mindful of the changed time zone, and correcting it too harshly. Just shy of 5am, Tim drives out where Boyd is. The GPS tracker has not moved. Tim doesn’t get so close as to be noticed, but he does chance his first real evidence that it is Boyd Crowder leading this expedition. He parks a ways away and circles back on foot, creeping through tall grass and dense shrubs along an adjacent hilltop. When he nears its height, Tim drops to his belly. He prefers exercising caution to wagering a stupid mistake, and doesn’t mind the grass stains that come with such a decision. With high-powered, portable scope, he peers into each of the hotel's tiny windows. Eventually, he spies it: even bathed in green from the scope, Boyd Crowder’s spikey head of hair cannot be masked. Tim sees Jimmy after that. He’s in the same room as Boyd, his cot positioned by the window where Boyd’s is turned away, head blindly facing a small corner. It’s as if Boyd means to preserve all his intellectual prowess by insulating his senses from all worldly distractions. 

Tim’s attention draws back to Jimmy, however. Checking to be certain Boyd is here at all only dawned upon Tim early this morning. Lying in bed, unable to sleep, he wondered why he had never thought to doubt Jimmy’s assertions. _Boyd’s here, Boyd’s asleep, Boyd thinks this, Boyd wants that, Boyd would rather stay at a Motel 6 than a La Quinta Inn. I dunno. Racism?_ Tim believed it all, even without seeing proof.

He thinks if he moves a couple yards to the left, he could better see Jimmy’s face, could watch him dream until the sunlight breaking through the window proves too much and he wakes. But making such a move would leave him exposed, so Tim gathers his supplies and leaves the way he came. 

Driving back into the city, Tim hits up a convenience store and scores some cheap necessities to keep Raylan and himself from doing yet more financial damage in this, an already precariously-bargained-for hunt of a fugitive. He buys beer, bourbon, power bars and--for Raylan’s sake--ice cream. After returning to the room and finding Raylan has returned and is sleeping, now, sidelong in his bed, Tim stows his purchases, then goes for a run in the city. 

He finds the river cutting through the town and follows it until the parallel lines of concrete become dirt and grass, slicing not through city centers, but entire mountains. The air here tastes familiar, and Tim runs until he stumbles, stops, and needs great lungfuls of the stuff. Everything is bathed in a dull blue, borne of the mountain’s shadow coupled with a lazy sun. It isn’t until he begins to head back that his body starts to loosen and luxuriate in the heat. It comes on too fast, however, and soon Tim feels himself weaken and ache. He wears his hat-- _still damp_ \--and is nauseated when the sun bakes the stink of filthy water out of the cap’s durable fabric. It surrounds his head like a noxious gas gathered up with the density of a low-lying cloud. He endures the odor throughout the entirety of his run’s return leg.

The day is otherwise spent around the hotel, neither man straying far from the GPS receiver. 

Raylan goes up to the pool again--claiming he has to get his money’s worth for the swimsuit--but finds he can’t relax enough to enjoy it. Still, he now boasts a healthy tan for his troubles.

“It ain’t like Boyd to sit around and wait,” Raylan says. He’s taken over Tim’s computer and is hunched over the thing, eyeballing Boyd’s unchanged location. His hair droops into his eyes, still wet and smelling of chlorine. 

Tim wants to ask if Raylan means that sentiment for himself, but holds his tongue. Such a comment sounds too much like casting aspersions, especially positioned like they are, idle but anxious. One wrong word and Tim can imagine blowing a gaping hole through the peace he’s forged with Raylan. For the lawman to take belated offense to his revelation isn’t something Tim expects--especially now, days after the fact--but he can’t shake the feeling that Raylan’s acceptance was too easily bought. 

Or worse still--freely given. 

Tim thinks about how he tried to handle things before: pointed reminders that _this fag_ saved the lives of his friends several times over. He thinks, too, how that never stacked up well in the _goodwill_ column. Warped though it is, Tim now imagines a kind of bloodletting, some grand gesture to prove his worth to the cause.

But maybe that's giving Raylan too much credit. They're hardly going to war, here, and mutual trust has always been a part of the job.

They both manage to relax some when Jimmy sends a text: _So bored._

It’s in the early evening when Tim gets a phone call from Jimmy. It’s short, and Tim does all the listening. 

“Jimmy’s coming by. Wants to talk.” Tim is grim-faced, concerned that Jimmy discarded his advice about keeping his distance so quickly. He shrugs into a discarded hoodie, zipping it to cover most of his snug, blue t-shirt. “Going to bring him up to the room.” 

Raylan doesn't so much as look up from his magazine. “Do I need to chaperone?” 

“You can stay for the talking part,” Tim drawls, his tone masterfully even and unperturbed. He smooths out the wrinkled bedcovers and tidies the desk on which he keeps his laptop and tracking gear.

Raylan smiles lazily; he recognizes that an effort is being made on Tim’s part. “You know, you might get a little further with just the t-shirt.” 

Tim cocks his head, swings his hips, and puts on a show of innocent disappointment. “You don’t think he likes me for me?”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Raylan says, then realizing how that sounds, folds his magazine down and speaks over it, correcting himself in a neat and practiced nonchalance: “You’re a total hottie, Tim.” 

“Don’t go getting me sprung now,” Tim warns. He does fiddle with the zipper of his hoodie, however.

Jimmy arrives at their room, hands in his pockets and looking agitated. His expression warms, seeing Tim. He even hazards a smile. 

"Hey. Can I have fifty bucks?"

"Excuse me?"

"Expenses,” Jimmy says. He has the kind of confidence that suggests he saw something like this on television, once. “I paid a girl to walk in here with me. In case I was being tailed, like you said." 

Jimmy's proud of himself for orchestrating the ruse, even if he was swindled. 

"I guess I can invoice it," Tim mutters while pulling some bills from his wallet. 

Raylan sees the exchange from across the room, but says nothing. He and Tim have arranged the furniture so that Jimmy is sat in one of the grand, wooden numbers from the desk, positioned with his back against the windowed wall. Raylan sits in the other chair, a short distance away but favoring one side. Jimmy doesn't have a clean line of sight on him, and will have to turn his head back and forth between the two Marshals, or else indulge just one with his attention, and essentially surrender himself for _observation_ to the other. Tim sits on the side of the nearest bed, directly in front of Jimmy. (When they discussed this--and it needed discussing--Raylan told him it would appear aspirational, but Tim thought it was a little too on the nose. "Should I wear my bedroom eyes, too?" he asked. Raylan shrugged, said, "Did you pack 'em?")

On the bed, Tim sits relaxed, leaning easily against locked arms. His legs are casually splayed open, just as far as his snug denim will allow. Except nothing about his posture is accidental, however, and Tim wishes he was in Raylan’s place. It’s Tim’s natural position: the observer. He’s less comfortable in this role-- _Raylan’s_ \--as an instigator, a salesman, a seductor. 

Jimmy asks for water not a minute after sitting down, though, so if dry mouth was the goal--mission accomplished. Anxious, he fumbles through an explanation for his presence. 

“I don’t think we’re going to meet the sellers tomorrow, neither,” he says, eyes on the floor. 

It’d be a sure sign of a lie if Jimmy wasn’t also blushing. 

Tim ducks his head down, indulging the kid. 

“Why do you say that, Jimmy?”

Jimmy shakes his head. “S’just what I hear.”

He takes a large gulp of water, then says what he came to say: “I think I should remove the tracking device.” 

Raylan swears and pushes away from the chair he’s sat in, prowls around the room before coming to rest against a wall far beyond Tim. He’s stood so that if Jimmy makes a run for it, he won’t get far. Tim doesn’t move so much as a hair. But his mood changes, and suddenly even spread legs aren’t so welcoming. 

“So it isn’t discovered by the cartel,” Jimmy mumbles. He’s starting to think he should have led with that. 

“Well I think it’s a fine idea,” Raylan barks from the cheap seats. “So long as it stays close. Say, upon your person?”

It’s as good a compromise as they’ll get, and Raylan thinks there’s some logistic benefit behind the swap. Playing up his displeasure will only serve to cement the notion that he and Tim are being lenient with Jimmy--downright neighbourly. But Tim isn’t sold on the idea--Raylan can read as much in the tense line of his shoulders--and he needs some persuading. 

Tim doesn’t want Jimmy identified as a rat, and a tracking device hidden somewhere on or _near_ him would do nothing less. It’s more danger than Jimmy’s signed on for. 

"You know if they find it…” Tim trails off. They both know what’s in store for Jimmy, and it looks very much like what Tim experienced with Boyd. Except, maybe instead of a threatened bullet in the back of his head, Jimmy gets decapitated. Tim can’t account for the personal preference of killers.

He concludes, “I might not be there to spring from the bushes and protect you."

Jimmy nods like he’s thought of that--imagined it, even. "If we leave it on Boyd's truck, they'll find it and kill us, anyway."

"You're protecting Boyd," Tim observes--practically, even legally. The thought makes Tim uneasy. 

“Are you surprised?” Raylan asks. “Boyd probably sent him.” 

Jimmy nearly leaps out of his seat. “Hey, asshole, why are you still here?” He’s red-faced and reaching for something that isn’t there. He’s not armed--in such a fine hotel, he couldn’t run the risk of being noticed for anything other than a dirty American traveller. “I ain’t _your_ \--what is it?”

“Confidential Informant,” Tim supplies coolly.

“Yeah.” Jimmy’s still heated. He doesn’t like the insinuation that Boyd knows anything about this monstrous betrayal. “You know, I ain’t fucking stupid.” He leaves it there. Said with enough malice, it’s downright threatening. 

“He’s not your enemy,” Tim tells Jimmy plainly. “You might have noticed we ain’t armed, neither.” 

Jimmy settles after that. He drinks more of his water, looks around the room. “Boyd thinks I’m sightseeing,” he offers up shyly. 

“Well ain’t that nice,” Tim drawls. Raylan takes this as his cue to leave, and mumbles something about returning to the pool as he goes. Tim shifts on the bed, unencumbered. “Not something we can do together, but nice.” 

As soon as the door closes behind Raylan--he heard that last line of Tim’s, god bless him--Jimmy is out of his seat and next to Tim. 

He sits close enough that Tim can feel the warmth radiating from his body, but they don’t yet touch. He thinks Jimmy, like himself, has perfected this technique. 

“This is wild, isn’t it? I mean--” Jimmy can’t talk for a moment as a grin overtakes his face. “Mexico, right? I've never been. And--you.”

Jimmy leans in and kisses Tim--soft, like the first time. It’s only when he draws back that he seems timid. 

Tim presses back into him, gives him more of the same. It’s a welcome opportunity to alleviate some stress, but Tim can’t make it past Jimmy’s fool-handed attempts at taking the action elsewhere--namely, down Tim’s jaw and throat. 

“We ain’t gonna fuck, Jimmy,” Tim says dully. It’s as sure a pre-emptive strike as he’s ever known, and it puts the brakes on Jimmy’s eager attitude. 

“Who’s gotta know?” Jimmy frames it like a plea, whispered and desperate. 

The open-faced longing is almost enough to make Tim reconsider. He knows how long Jimmy’s waited, and if nothing else he sympathizes. But there’s a task at hand, and it’s foremost in Tim’s thoughts. He’s got to loop enough rope around Boyd Crowder--come at him tactically, strategically, and internally--and hope by the end, there’s length to hang him by. 

“Would it matter to you any? If I didn’t want to?”

It’s a hurtful thing to say, and Jimmy is slow to respond. He doesn’t seem to understand those words, in that order, coming from this man. “Of course it would. That just never occurred to me.” 

Tim smiles a little. “Maybe we could try something. After.” 

Jimmy retracts every facet of contact. He’s no longer pressed against Tim. His hands are digging into the flesh of his own thighs, now. His tongue is in his own mouth, braced by two neat rows of teeth. “You say that like you don’t already know I’m risking my life, doing this.”

Tim’s smile turns strained. “You’re smarter than we all give you credit for. More ruthless, too.” And that’s the kind of man he’d like to get to know. 

Jimmy seems to recognize this about himself, too. It’s a point of pride. “Boyd knows that. He told me--he thinks I have real potential.” 

“You do realize what you’re giving up if you carry this on,” Tim says, giving way to a rare pang of guilt. “Boyd, for one.” 

“I try not to think about it,” Jimmy admits. “He’s so smart. What if he already knows what I’m doing?” 

“He is smart,” Tim agrees, although it turns his stomach to do so. “But he’s not infallible. I’m sure he tells you all the time how this plan will work, how he’ll rescue Ava and make all y’all millionaires. He’s got to believe all that, too. Buy a share of his own snake oil just to give you a free taste.” 

Maybe some small part of Jimmy knows all that to be true, but in any case--he won’t argue the sentiment’s merit with Tim. He addresses the one sure-fire flaw in Tim’s assessment: “He doesn’t talk about money like that. Money ain’t what he wants. He wants a future, you know? Money’s just the way to get there.” 

“He wants a nice house, nice cars--that shit costs money.”

“He just wants Ava,” Jimmy says. His tone is hushed in reverence for Boyd Crowder and his single-minded determination. “And if she wants the house and the cars… he wants to be able to give her everything.” 

“Everybody wants that,” Tim says. “Why’s Boyd get to be the one to fuck up people’s lives in the pursuit?”

Jimmy shrugs. “‘Cause he’s smart enough to figure out how?” 

Tim wonders if his own singular dedication to a cause--the military--was this obnoxious. Jimmy has an answer or, just as often, an _excuse_ for everything Boyd does. “Wasn’t he a white supremacist for a while? And some self-proclaimed prophet? And now a crime lord?”

“He’s a leader.” 

Tim narrows his eyes. “Are you a soldier?”

“I’m just a guy lucky enough to know him.” 

_Jesus Christ,_ Tim thinks, and he spares a moment to imagine Jimmy not being found fit to testify, should the matter ever go to court. Tim wouldn’t mind settling it some other way, truth be told. 

“I gotta say, Jimmy, for someone so enamoured with that chalky-toothed asshole, you were pretty easy to turn against him.” 

“I’m pretty enamoured with you, too,” Jimmy says, embarrassed. “Don’t get mad? Whatever happens… I think Boyd will be okay. He’ll start again.” 

Tim’s brow furrows over his eyes, further hooding them in shadow. “On principle, Jimmy, that makes me a little mad.” 

Tim wants to burn away that admiration. He moves slow, deliberately placing his hands on Jimmy’s shoulders. Tim fits his hands into the open jacket, and helps it off as the would-be criminal stares, wide-eyed and curious. Once the jacket is off, Tim tosses it easily onto the chair Jimmy had occupied, earlier. 

Tim moves to kiss him, to open and explore Jimmy’s mouth with his own.

Jimmy gives in immediately, then turns away. “If you don’t want to--”

“Of course I _want_ to.” But Tim stops, too. He tries to put out of his head all _his_ reasons to hesitate: the uneven distribution of power, the fact that he needs Jimmy’s complacency, not his adoration. And instead, Tim considers where _Jimmy_ should find fault with this arrangement. 

“I shouldn’t be your first,” Tim says, wet and warm into the corner of Jimmy’s mouth. He draws away, leaving only a parting kiss. 

Jimmy screws his eyes shut; there’s a growing discomfort in his jeans, but it’s the ache in his chest that catches him off guard. It feels suspiciously like fear, and he dreads the idea of Tim stopping now. “I will literally _beg_ you to reconsider.” 

“I won’t make you do that,” Tim hums. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Tim falls back into form, carrying on with Jimmy until their motions become practiced. He feels Jimmy’s hesitation toward initiating anything; his hands have literally not moved from Tim’s sides. Tim wrestles out of his hoodie and t-shirt in an effort to provide Jimmy options, but the hands are back, poised and still.

When he’s finally had enough, Tim finds Jimmy’s hand glued to his lower back and forcibly moves it to the flesh of his ass. Jimmy bites back a smile, and gives a tight squeeze that surprises Tim.

“I didn’t think you’d be so nice,” Jimmy says, stopping to catch his breath. Tim expects if they’ll continue, it’ll be decided now. 

“You want me meaner?” Tim cocks his head some, agreeable to the suggestion.

Jimmy quickly falters. “No--I--nice is good. Fine. I like… nice.” 

In the lull, Tim takes the opportunity to rid Jimmy of his shirt. It’s a soft and well-worn henley, speckled gray-and-white and missing a button at the throat. Jimmy’s smooth underneath, well-defined in a way a gun-toting lackey not necessarily be. Tim bets he played sports in highschool, and is hanging on to the physique. 

Tim decides to, again, make the first move. He unfastens Jimmy’s belt, and thumbs open his fly. Tim shucks Jimmy’s pants down his thighs, then toys with the elastic band of his checkered boxershorts. When he starts to tug them down, Jimmy’s hands are on Tim’s in a heartbeat.

“Wait--” he says, and he’s gone dry-mouthed again. “It ain’t pretty. I got--scars.” 

That does stay Tim’s hands. If Jimmy has the lasting marks of a bad case of warts or rot, there might be an early end to their evening, yet.

“What kind of scars,” Tim asks, keeping his tone light. He’s still fiddling with the band, deciding for himself what he’s willing to risk.

Jimmy looks mortified. “On my ass,” he admits. “‘Cause of whippin’s…” 

Tim is relieved, but manages not to show it. He shifts, comes around Jimmy and brings an index finger down to investigate. He plucks at Jimmy’s boxers and looks down his asscrack, and pretends to consider things. He drops his voice, coloring it a shade of profound seriousness, and says, “Jimmy. Your ass is very pretty.” 

Jimmy snorts and runs a hand over his face, embarrassed. Tim shifts back around, continues, “Raylan even tells me it’s dimpled.” (3)

Jimmy looks confused for a second, then allows his face to crack sideways in a smile. “Oh right. Man, he is _such an asshole._ ” He scratches at his hairline, like he feels an old ache. Then, Jimmy’s expression turns contemplative. It’s not a face of a man with his pants undone and wanting for more; he’s practically stalled in place. “He knows about you,” Jimmy says, turning to look carefully upon Tim. “I thought you said he didn’t.”

“I just told him two days ago,” Tim says, like it’s suddenly so easy to explain. He doesn’t want go into detail, but Jimmy looks at him, fearful, and Tim knows what’s coming. 

“Because of me?”

It’s a loaded question. Jimmy can only guess that if Tim implicated him, Raylan knows everything. And unlike Tim, there’s no hard-won trust forged with the older Deputy over a gruesome night’s events. Likewise, Raylan has no reason to _keep_ his secret. He has no reason to _care._

“No,” Tim eventually answers--lies--and makes it sound true. He can see Jimmy visibly start to relax. He breathes out, then stares down at his crotch where his boxers are tented and his jeans are spilled open and wrestled down to his knees. Then he looks at Tim’s. He’s buttoned tight, but strained.

“Can I--?” 

“It’s probably best if I do it,” Tim interrupts, smiling crookedly. “For you.”

“You mean, legally? Or because I never done it before?”

“Legally,” Tim says after a beat, and it’s not a total lie. He mostly just doesn’t want to hurt the kid’s feelings. “How do you like it?” he asks, then frowns. “You _have_ \--”

“Yeah, yeah of course. _Of course._ Uhm. I guess they were all professionals.” Jimmy shrugs. “I always had my eyes closed.”

“Mm. Well, don’t do that this time.” 

Tim resumes kissing Jimmy, then starts to fondle him through his boxers. Tim’s mouth leaves Jimmy’s and explores further south. 

“It wasn’t a lot,” Jimmy starts to speak again, unsure of what the situation calls for. “Uhm. Mostly I self-service.” Because Tim seems to be ignoring him, Jimmy stops, blushes. “I’m clean.”

When Tim pushes Jimmy back against the bed and fits himself where Jimmy’s long legs break from his sides, he feels his soul dismount. There is something terribly wrong in this, but Tim can no longer make the distinction--if that twinge of guilt comes from taking what he wants, or taking it from Jimmy. He decides to stop caring; it’s a particular skill he’s nurtured for years. 

When Tim takes him inside his mouth, Jimmy makes a tender sound, like how the skin around a bruise feels. He says something-- _“Oh my god”_ \--but it sounds like _“I love you.”_

And Tim--Tim loves _this._ Breaking a man in a way that doesn’t leave him bloodied and dead-eyed. 

It helps that it’s fun and Tim’s good at it. Jimmy’s got balls so tight Tim has to wonder how he got through talking about Boyd for as long as he did--or if that’s his explanation. He makes breathless half-noises, like a body stricken with a deathblow, but with none of the staying power. He suffers this delight.

Tim starts to taste and suck with practiced rhythm, but can tell Jimmy isn’t going to last long, despite Tim’s efforts to draw this experience out. His first blow job--he’d given more than he’d received for a time--wasn’t much more than some hesitant gumming. Still, Tim exploded like a hot aerosol can. There’s really no poor end when the invitation is made. 

When he’s getting close, Jimmy curls forward, draws his arms around Tim’s shoulders, and ducks his head so that his forehead is touched neatly to Tim’s crown. He breathes heavily and open-mouthed. His lips press into Tim’s hair and later, he’ll taste hotel shampoo and sweat.

He comes in hot spurts down the back of Tim’s throat, and makes that pained little noise again. 

Tim draws him through completion and then returns his attention to Jimmy’s mouth and throat, kissing until Jimmy is too spent to reciprocate. 

They finish on the bed: both shirtless, Jimmy tugging dumbly at his jeans. 

Speaking to the ceiling, Jimmy offers what he thinks Tim wants, if not a returned favor. “Boyd ain’t just running into this. He’s bein’ patient.” Jimmy knows Tim wants the details, but he can’t help but adding his own opinion: “I think he can pull it off.”

“You think me and Raylan can’t catch him,” Tim translates, unimpressed with Jimmy’s read on the situation. He’s angled himself against the headboard and is sitting upright, one leg curled on its side and the other drawn up. He’s watching over Jimmy.

“Maybe you do. But it’ll only be after the fact, won’t it?” Jimmy can’t hide the pleased smile creeping across his face. It’s upside down from Tim’s position. “He’s going to drive back into America, cocaine piled high in his Ford.” 

“You think that’s funny,” Tim says. He knows it’s a losing battle, getting into the ethical questions of the so-called war on drugs with the lackey of an _actual_ drug lord.

“It’s impressive,” Jimmy says, then turns to bury his nose into Tim’s fleshy side, pressing kisses against the flesh just above the waist of his jeans. 

“Hey,” Tim drawls, “None of that. Not after you’ve gone and hurt my feelings.” Tim leaves the bed, finds his t-shirt and pulls it on. He smooths out his jeans and, save for his mussed hair, almost looks presentable. 

“Are you done with me?” Jimmy asks, sitting up as well. His eyes are wide, fearful. “Because I didn’t mean--”

“No, I ain’t done with you. There’s gotta be confirmation on the buy, a photo of the haul would be nice, and the actual bust itself--”

“No. I mean. Are you done with me?”

Tim is about to pull on his hoodie, but something tells him the last thing Jimmy needs to see is Tim looking like this never happened. He discards it on the bed and gives a pitying half-smile. “I said maybe we could try something after all this. There’s lots more than blowjobs. Sky’s the limit.” 

Jimmy is easily cheered by this, then gets dressed and kisses Tim goodbye--seemingly not knowing or not caring that Tim is lying through his teeth. 

\- 

After he sees Jimmy off, Tim showers, checks the GPS receiver, answers a few emails, then settles into bed. He doubts Raylan needs an invitation to return, and figures if he's managed to keep himself entertained _this_ long... 

His sleep is light and uneven. Tim's grown used to another body in the room, and Raylan's snoring in particular. Without it, the room feels too big. 

He awakens when Raylan returns to the room just shy of midnight, but keeps up the act. 

“I know you’re awake,” Raylan says, not bothering even to lower his voice. “How was your rendezvous with Jimmy?”

“You may not want to lay on top of your comforter.” 

“That good, huh?” Raylan makes a face like he’s smelling something awful, only to realize it’s been put on his plate to eat. Tim suspects he’s been drinking, or else he’d be of a mind to keep his expression neutral when addressing Tim’s adoption of one of Raylan’s patented tactics. His lip curls upward while his brows draw low; his face concentrates towards its own center. “You didn’t really sleep with the kid, did you?”

“No,” Tim says, because it should be obvious. His voice sounds thick, somehow more tired and grumpier than usual. “Not in the way you mean.”

Raylan catches his drift. He accepts it with an amused ease. “Well what’s a blowjob between friends? That’s what I always say.”

“Ain’t that an evolved perspective,” Tim comments warily. 

Raylan smirks. “Not really.” 

Tim finally sits up in bed, convinced Raylan isn’t going to let him get back to sleep. “He thinks Boyd is going to outsmart us.”

“‘Course he does. He knows Boyd.”

“You agree with him?” This attitude of awe towards Boyd is becoming entirely too pervasive in Tim’s opinion. “What is all this to you--some paid vacation?”

“For a paid vacation, I’d expect better company.” Raylan flicks on a light, and the darkened room seems to break open. Yellow light seems to cut every item in the space into halves of good and evil. Raylan, similarly marked in glowing esteem as well as murky shadows, digs around in his duffle bag until he finds a clean t-shirt. “We’ll get him, Tim. It just won’t be clean.” 

Tim feels silly arguing with Raylan while half-asleep and half-naked in bed. “The point of this--of filing my complaint, of keeping up with that goddamn tracker, of _Jimmy_ \--is so all this _will_ be clean.” 

It’s like working with a child, Tim thinks. This was the task discussed ad nauseum in the office, and Raylan never once voiced such towering doubts. 

It’s nothing short of asking if the cowboy lawman needs to use the restroom, hearing a stream of ardent denials, and coming back five minutes later to a puddle and ruined carpet.

Raylan pulls off the shirt he’s wearing and tugs on the new one. “Tell that to Boyd Crowder. I’m sure he’ll understand.” 

Tim just stares, convinced this entire conversation is some inane dream. 

Raylan does him one better: he turns up the charm. “Well now that you’re up, can I interest you in a night of esteemed company and refined debauchery?”

Tim lets his head hit the pillow again, and he turns away from the splintered lamplight. “How much have you had to drink?”

“A very intrepid young lady friend of mine--”

“String bikini?”

“I’m sure she has an assortment of wears,” Raylan says, and Tim thinks he’s even starting to _sound_ like Boyd, in addition to thinking so highly of him. “She and her girlfriends are going out tonight, some club. Asked if I wanted to come along, I mention that I’m here with a friend, and there you have it: pity invite.”

“We shouldn’t be roaming around. You wanna run into Crowder and blow this whole thing before it even gets off the ground?”

“It’s a big city,” Raylan reasons. “Besides. It’s Mexico. Full of Mexicans. I have it on good authority Boyd hates those things.” He finds another light, flicks it on. “Get dressed. Least you can do is play translator.” 

“Dos margaritas,” Tim says while throwing back the comforter and sheets, and stepping out over the side of the bed. He isn’t sure if he’s readying to go with Raylan, or to punch him in the face. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Well if you’re not going to be in a festive mood, don’t come.”

Tim throws open his arms. “When have you ever known my mood to be festive? _Why even wake me up?_ ”

“She’s got a friend,” Raylan concedes, and that about says it all.

“And you don’t,” Tim shoots back. “I see the problem. Hey, good luck with that.”

“Come on, man. Two young, pretty American girls? In Mexico?”

“So? Do they really need an armed escort?” 

“You know, I was watching Nancy Grace just the other day and _she_ seems to think--” Raylan just narrowly dodges the pillow Tim throws at his head. “Think of it as your patriotic duty.”

Now Tim, without a pillow, realizes something. “Oh, shit. She’s holding out on you, isn’t she?”

Raylan makes a face. _Right? Unbelievable._

And it gets Tim thinking about all the brotherhood he’s worried he’ll lose if he can’t play both sides of his coming out: there’s the side where he nonetheless maintains a level of professionalism, and a greater side--where he holds up some imagined bargain of still being a decent human being. Raylan likely doesn’t know about the latter; in fact, he mistakes it for the natural growth of a friendship. 

Going to a club with some girl’s unlucky friend. Tim accepts the burden for what it is: the bloodletting he’s been expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (3) In season 4, while the Marshals are on the hunt for Ellen May, Raylan wants Jimmy to call Boyd. Jimmy tells him to kiss his dimpled ass. Thanks to everyone who reblogged that gif set on Tumblr, because I'd completely forgotten that line.
> 
> Aaaand we'll get back to the plot in the next chapter with midnight drives across ole Mexico. I'm wagering something of a wait, however, because I just started a new job and right now my days are filled with uncomfortable slacks and ten hours of non-stop social anxiety.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is _so_ late! Thank you guys so much for reading and commenting, and generally sticking with this story. It needs to hit a few more notes and then wind down, but I'm still at a loss for an Ending. We'll all just have to see where it goes together! (O NO THAT SOUNDS TERRIBLE)

They’re not much dressed for clubbing: with Tim in his black denim jeans and the wrinkled t-shirt he was sleeping in, and Raylan in similar fare. However, while Raylan adds a denim jacket to his ensemble, he promptly loses it to the shoulders of String Bikini. String Bikini (who has a name, Tim learns, although it sounds more like an alias or a Monopoly property: Veronica Gardens) and Raylan genuinely seem to have hit it off. She’s young and pretty, nothing like the vampy professional at their first hotel looking for clients to claim as company. Veronica has her arm perpetually locked in Raylan’s, and dotes on him like she might a first boyfriend. She laces their fingers together, kisses his cheek, strokes the graying hair just behind his ear. 

Meanwhile, Tim is finds himself dumped on another woman, who Veronica intimates plays for the other team _but is, like, super nice and totally game for whatevs._

She’s a good head taller than Tim with close-cropped hair, styled not unlike a mushroom, shorter than either Raylan’s or Tim’s. Under a slick leather jacket she wears a sleeveless white top tucked loosely into the front of her snug jeans. The fabric reaches across her wide hips like a privilege, not a chore. Something about her confidence reminds Tim of Rachel, and he finds himself suddenly wanting to show this woman a good time. 

They meet in the lobby, and Tim realizes it’s him and Raylan making an entrance. Wrinkled and yawning it isn’t their best.

Tim holds out his hand. "Hi. I'm Tim. I heard you were a total lez, but like super nice and totally game for whatevs."

The woman's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, and Tim regrets how his verbatim delivery of Veronica’s whispered introduction reads like a frat boy’s worst pickup line. 

"Veronica's been speaking highly of me, I see." The woman unfolds her arms from across her chest and tentatively meets Tim’s hand, then shakes. "She get around to telling you my name?"

"Ah, a gross oversight on her part, there," Tim tries to smile and make up for his poor start.

"Carmen," she says, then looks Tim up and down, accepting his presence with a kind of tried patience. "I see she didn't make much of an effort to find me a date."

"Sorry," Tim tells her. "I was, basically, the second stranger she met. But I'll buy you a drink and spot you one dance."

“And help me scope out girls,” Carmen adds. 

Tim’s smile turns genuine. “I can try.” 

They go on foot, walking the clean, brightly-lit streets of downtown Monterrey. Raylan walks with his head inclined slightly towards Veronica. They can all hear her excited chatter; it doesn’t require a demonstration of attentiveness. Still, it sort of warms Tim to know that this is how Raylan genuinely is around women. He’s a charmer. A total flirt, to be sure, quick witted and ready with a compliment--but above all that, he’s attentive. Tim supposes that’s what drew Winona to him and, if Raylan is correct in his assessment, what eventually drove her away. Listening like he does, Raylan eventually gets an earful of the bad stuff. 

Thankfully, Carmen seems content to walk in peaceable quiet, occasionally smiling or making a face at something that’s being said ahead of them. 

“Precious,” she comments under her breath.

“I could just die,” Tim deadpans. 

He asks some questions and gets one- or two-word answers in response. 

“Is this for my benefit?” Tim asks.

“I could use smaller words,” Carmen says, smirking. Her expression tightens, then falters. “Sorry. Veronica said you and Raylan were cops, but… I don’t really know what you are.”

Tim nods. He mentally runs through their Q-and-A and when Carmen doesn’t take it upon herself to carry on the conversation, Tim repeats them all back: “Student. UCLA. Double Major--I asked _what in_ , you said Anthropology, I said _that’s funny, doubles usually come in twos,_ you said Women’s Studies. Two brothers. Born in Cleveland. Go Browns.” Tim meets Carmen’s impressed smile, then stuffs his hands into his pockets and laments the absence of his sidearm. “And we’re not cops, strictly speaking.”

The club is situated on one of the expansive, open floors of a repurposed warehouse. Bright and open, the space is a mixture of mingling bodies, tall tables crowded with drink orders, and dancing. There are paintings on the walls spanning from the floor to the ceiling. Bright and graphic, waves of color spread to evoke constant, heady movement across the canvases, and serve to carry the eye around the enormous room. 

The walls around the dance floor are a dark shade of burgundy, and the bodies are alight with the soft glow of the light fixtures. A mirrored ceiling excites the dancers; as many faces are turned upwards as they are met to their respective partners.

Veronica, with Raylan in tow, makes a bee-line to the dance floor. Raylan dances precisely how he wants to--slow and easy--despite the frantic tempo of the music. Tim walks the length of the space just to check it out, then finds Carmen at the bar. To start, Tim drinks more than he should. He feels responsible for the woman at his side, but can’t help but stare across the room, where a number of men are dancing together, trading partners, their expressions open and bodies agreeable. 

Tim wishes the club was darker, seedier. He needs not to be able to see what he wants, parading around in front of him. 

He finds the bottom of his glass several times over, and delves back into the familiar headspace of blurred want and strict dissociation. He sinks into apathy, and turns his attention back to the woman at his side, then asks her point-blank: “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

She makes a humming sound, then allows, "I’m trying to decide for myself if I’ve got better prospects out there," she nods towards the dance floor, “Or if I’m just too tired to try.” 

“Busy day?”

“You know that fucking mountain west of here?”

“Ran by it this morning.”

Carmen gestures to herself with both thumbs. “This guy? _Climbed it._ ”

Tim buys her a second drink and they find themselves a place on the terrace, facing inward so that Tim can watch for Raylan and Veronica. It’s cool out, and Carmen discretely slips off her pumps under the table. Tim learns from her--a PhD candidate writing about Mexican cartels and gendered violence, _naturally_ \--about the major groups operating in this area. It wasn’t something he could research earlier when they had no idea _where_ in Mexico Boyd was heading. Now, however, it helps to have something of a trained eye on their side. She sketches a little map on a cocktail napkin, indicating the areas better-known for drug infiltration. 

"Not Monterrey?" Tim confirms, studying the map.

She shakes her head. "You'll want to go further south for that."

Tim pockets the map and rattles off some bizarre line-- _the U.S. Marshal Service thanks you for your patriotism_ \--that must be second nature, because he is genuinely oblivious to how silly it sounds.

“What happened to your face?” Carmen asks, feeling more at ease with Tim's company. She's decided he's harmless. 

“I was born with this face,” Tim deadpans before he realizes she means the severe cut across the bridge of his nose, and the hint of yellowing bruise around his eye. “It’s kind of why we’re down here. Looking to return the favor.”

 _Scratch that,_ Carmen thinks, sucking down the last of her paloma. 

\- 

When they leave the club, it's in search of street food. Per Carmen’s recommendation, they keep things simple with tamales. There are vendors lined up along the backstreets, but Carmen leads them past several before settling on one she deems permissible. They’re piping hot, plucked from great steel drums and carried through a cloud of steam into a too-small swath of wax paper. 

Carmen and Tim walk until they find a corner free of venders and drunk American tourists alike, and wait for Veronica and Raylan to make their orders and join them. 

Carmen washes down her last bite with a swig of bottled water Tim bought her in addition to the tamale. “You didn’t try to hit on me,” she observes, nudging him. “Not once all night.”

“I thought you weren’t of that persuasion," Tim says, then makes an apologetic face. He knows he's speaking louder than necessary since coming out of the club.

“Never stopped a man before.” 

“Don’t go thinking there are some good ones out there,” Tim says, accepting the water bottle when Carmen offers it. “I’m gay.”

Carmen raises an eyebrow--she wouldn’t have guessed. “You look surprised to hear it,” she says, more gentle than jovial, because she has an intimate understanding herself why Tim would not mentioned this at their initial meeting.

Tim looks sort of chagrined by her observation, but tries to muster a smile, instead. “I’ve been saying it a lot lately.” 

Suddenly--Tim's on the ground. Stars shoot before his eyes, then a flash of black, then a pain that dulls his senses. Carmen shouts something unintelligible. Tim pushes himself up and turns--whip fast, although it feels like swimming through molasses. He sees a young guy standing over him, big tan boots on his feet--his weapon of choice. He hurls another kick to Tim’s head and it connects against Tim’s ear.

"You a faggot?" he shouts, then shouts again, thinking Tim is too stunned to understand him. "Huh? You a fucking faggot? You ain't man enough to show this beautiful woman a good time? Hell--I'll take her off your hands." 

Tim doesn't waste a second--he's on his feet and out of the way of the next kick. He comes at the man, unafraid, and blocks the expected punch. Then, Tim throws himself into the guy, catching him off guard and slamming him into the crumbling brick facade of a nearby building. The man’s head bounces off the building and for a brief second, there’s genuine doubt if he’s still cognizant enough to keep himself upright, or if that’s Tim’s doing. Tim breaks his nose and sends him bouncing again. Then, he raises an arm to pin across the man's throat, to snuff out the insults before they spread over his tongue and teeth. 

It’s a quick fight. Tim is fast and knows how to fight, how to kill; the guy he’s up against only has cheap shots and maybe some experience as a punter on his high school football team. Tim decides against crushing the man’s windpipe or shattering his collarbone. That’s not the kind of attention he needs here, and there’s already the explosion of blood from the man’s face to concern himself with.

He does cut off the man’s breathing for long enough that under all that red, his face turns blue, and Tim can feel Raylan’s hand pulling at his shoulder. Tim finally releases him and when he crumples to the ground, red-faced and gasping for breath, Tim notices the familiar silver chain that spills from the neck of his shirt. Tim drops his boot onto it, then yanks it across the cement walkway to confirm what he suspects: dog tags, not unlike his own.

"You Army?" Tim asks. His voice is completely steady. He grabs at his own bit of silver, draws them out from beneath his t-shirt. It’s a shirt that is now sprayed with the other man’s blood, and Tim’s tags fit neatly over the splatter pattern. "Me too, you piece of shit." 

A hand lands on his shoulder, and whether it’s Raylan’s or someone else’s, Tim jerks violently away. He stalks off down the street, heated, and calls Jimmy. It’s stupid, impulsive. Jimmy answers immediately--also stupid, also impulsive. 

_“Fuck Boyd,”_ Tim half-shouts. He’s standing his his back and his aching head towards the audience of friends and enemies alike. “He’s the asshole who thought it’d be funny to watch you get me off. Would he be laughing now, knowing what I did for you tonight? Fuck Boyd, and _fuck you._ ”

Tim ends the call and turns back around in time to see Raylan telling off the group of men his assailant had sprung from. They’re young--just shy of Tim’s age--and Tim feels like an asshole for that. He starts back, but someone from the group spots him and holds out their hands, signaling him to keep back. Tim complies. 

The ache in his head turns sharp, and while palming at the base of his skull Tim feels warm, wet blood. He fights the urge to sit his ass down on the sidewalk and wait out the dizziness and pain, because he knows now that’s a vulnerable position. He doesn’t think it’s fair--not to throw the first punch but to be treated like the aggressor. Eventually, Raylan waves him over. Tim is intercepted by a shaken Carmen, who presses a white cloth into his hands. It’s only after pressing the bundle to his bleeding head that Tim notices Carmen is clutching her jacket together with one hand, and that the cloth is surely her tank top. Tim feels like an asshole for that, too.

When he finally approaches the group--it takes three of the guy’s buddies to hold him up--Tim can’t hear anything that’s being said for the buzzing in his ears. He thinks Raylan got the stunned, bloodied guy to apologize. 

“You know how to set your nose?” Tim asks. “Or should I do it?”

The kid declines. He and his friends hurry off, and Raylan claps a hand onto Tim’s shoulder as they retreat. “You did the gentlemanly thing,” Raylan commends. He follows it up with a joking comment, something for the girls’ benefit to lighten the mood. "Tim, I want you to know something: the bartender got my drink wrong. Just so you don't start feeling special or anything, like the universe only has designs to ruin _your_ life." 

It’s only Veronica Gardens who laughs, awkward and uneasy.

Tim doesn’t remember much about getting back to the hotel. Worryingly, however, he leads the way. 

Veronica is back with her small shoulders engulfed by Raylan’s denim jacket, and his arm loosely drawn around her waist. She only caught the tail end of the fight--the part Tim won--and thinks the whole thing is charming and wishes she’d thought to Instagram it. Carmen, meanwhile, walks alongside Tim, yet somehow manages to keep her distance. She extends a hand to him at some point, brushes off the bits of gravel that stick like shiny gems to Tim’s scraped forearm. She’s zipped her leather jacket to her throat, and Tim is reminded she isn’t wearing anything under it.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, his voice low and gruff. Carmen takes quicker steps to keep up with him. “I should have made sure you were okay. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“They didn’t touch me,” Carmen says, but Tim doesn’t think that's all that matters. They _could_ have, while his back was turned, while he sought revenge. 

On the walk back to the hotel, Tim doesn’t _cool down_ so much as he compresses, and snuffs out the flame by denying it any room to breathe. It’s a practice that shortens his life’s fuse a little more each time it’s called for, but it works. In the hotel lobby, Tim says something appropriately polite and apologetic to Carmen. 

Raylan and Veronica make themselves scarce. Tim thinks it will at least be something to laugh about on the drive back to Lexington: Raylan came to Mexico and got lucky with the only waspy, _I-spend-_ all _-my-summers-in-Maine_ Protestant princess in the entire country. 

Tim returns to his and Raylan’s room and immediately checks the GPS data. There’s still no movement. He goes to the bathroom and wets a towel, presses it to the back of his head and gently cleans the blood from his hair and neck. The gesture only serves to aggravate the gash, and soon Tim is resigned to holding the towel in place to stay further bleeding. 

He sits on the toilet, its lid thankfully closed by the maid service. The room is stunningly quiet, and it takes Tim a while to determine if he's lost partial hearing in his ear, or if it's only as quiet as it usually is, and he's only imagining something worse for himself. As much as he wants not to think about what has just occurred, he figures it's inevitable. And to do so before he's stuck in a confined space with Raylan would prove prudent. 

But suddenly, Tim isn’t sure what to think. With any possibility--this included, in some form or fashion--Tim has given some thought towards precautions and contingency plans. But none of that seems necessary now, when the one thing he didn’t account for is how he feels. Sat on a toilet with an aching head and embarrassment pooling in his stomach, Tim can’t even fathom what needs doing. If he’d been in Lexington, in a bar or someplace with witnesses, there would be a story to craft, possibly a police report to disappear. He decides this variation isn’t so bad. It was just a fight--ugly and messy, and if that’s all it ever is Tim knows he can manage. 

With someone else’s blood down the front of his shirt, his own soaking through a hotel hand towel, Tim tells himself this a hundred different ways until he believes it. 

Tim wriggles free of the t-shirt and chucks it in the bin. In the mirror he checks his pupils and finds no adverse change. He pulls on another shirt, returns to bed, and faces the laptop. He scans some websites where he might find a local hook-up, but quickly abandons the idea in favor of an old standby: getting drunk. 

At the hotel bar, Tim drinks until the shame is dulled, until he can’t remember Carmen’s shaken look or Raylan’s steady hand. 

Tim feels a warm, wet trickle creep down his neck and knows if he just drinks more, he can forget about it. He feels like he gives it a lot of thought, but ends up settling his tab. 

Back in the room, Tim is surprised to see Raylan sat at the end of his bed, tugging off his boots.

“She stiff you?” Tim asks dully. The room tips sideways a hair, and Tim moves to straighten it. “Or--?”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Raylan says, more than pleased with himself. His expression quiets some when he asks, “How about yourself?” 

Tim realizes he’s left his computer open to a less-than-tasteful representation of his present interests. It doesn’t really help that while Juan, a twenty-something medical student and part-time self-proclaimed “fuck machine,” _is_ wearing an Armani bowtie, he’s fashioned it around his fully erect penis.

“Only got as far as the bar,” Tim says while shutting the laptop. He touches his head again, and his fingertips come away red.

Raylan frowns. “You ain’t still bleeding, are you?” It’s been over two hours since the incident.

When Tim ventures back into the bathroom to check, Raylan follows. Tim spies him and tries to shut the door, but Raylan gets a socked foot in the way, first, and ensures his entry. It’s strange, Raylan finds, to suddenly tower over his partner. To move and shift in a way to accommodate both their grown bodies in the bathroom, then for Tim to comply as Raylan inspects his head--well. It’s goddamn surreal. His touch is gentle as he parts Tim’s hair and discovers a swollen knot at the base of Tim’s skull, just an inch or so adjacent to his ear. Its risen up from under the gash. 

It’s messy, which Raylan supposes they both should be thankful for. In their line of work, _precision_ means _fatal._ As the product of blind brute force and a dull boot, Tim’s injury is only superficial.

“It ain’t pretty, but you’ll live.” 

“Hey, you ever say that to a girl before showing her your dick?”

Raylan gives a surprised laugh, and watches Tim’s back as he leaves the bathroom in favor of the living space. “You know, I wasn’t expecting this, but you aren’t as funny drunk as you are sober.”

“It’s my greatest personal flaw,” Tim says, and comes to a stop at his bed. He works something around in his mouth before spitting it out: “Don’t tell Art.”

“Yeah, no.” Raylan frowns. “Why would I--?”

“About any of this,” Tim specifies, keeping his voice steady and firm. “About me. Or Jimmy.” Tim doesn’t say it, but the hitch in his voice makes it clear: _Please._

Raylan shrugs. “Sure.”

Raylan’s compliance is too easily won, and Tim feels inclined to test it. “And Rachel. Not her, neither.”

“She really doesn’t know?”

Tim is less embarrassed by Raylan’s boldfaced doubt than he is by his own explanation: “She… sort of asked. Once. I lied, said I wasn’t any good at keeping girlfriends, but I had ‘em. I think she bought it.” 

“Lied to Rachel,” Raylan repeats, hands on his hips. “I didn’t think it could be done.”

Tim falls silent, no longer bolstered by drink and anger. Instead, those things bring Tim to turn in on himself. He folds into bed, for once not caring that Raylan is in full view of this intimate, quiet act. 

Raylan does watch, and without fail senses something deeply wrong. From more than an aching head or a liver working overtime, Tim is hurting. Into the dark of the room, Raylan asks, “You wanna talk about it?”

Tim gives the answer Raylan is hoping for--a short, “I do not”--and falls asleep.

\- 

Jimmy calls Tim back just after three. Raylan stirs, and spends a few foggy minutes eavesdropping on the conversation. He quickly wishes he hadn’t. Tim tells Jimmy precisely what happened prior to his angry phone call, and Raylan learns of a few details he hadn’t been on the scene in time to observe for himself. There’s no anger in his voice; it’s all been spent. Tim recalls the ugly occurrence like he’s repeating a complicated coffee request. There’s nothing special about it, nothing terrible. There’s just the facts, ordered and neat, said as they came. 

Tim stops, listens to Jimmy’s response, and mumbles “thanks.” 

Then he’s quiet for a time. He moves to sit up in bed, when previously he was speaking with his phone sandwiched between his face and his pillow. Like he was talking to some invisible bedfellow. 

“I’m not going to see you again--like that.” Tim speaks with a certainty that’s hard to come across in a man, Raylan thinks. He can tell it’s not something Tim wants to say or do, but he’s seen the reason in it and therefore must commit. “I hope I can still count on your help. I understand if I can’t. Just… take care of yourself.” 

Tim listens for a while, and Raylan can just barely hear Jimmy’s words of allegiance issued at a rapid fire pace. Tim finishes up by saying, “Okay. But I think you should sleep on it.”

He ends the call but doesn’t return to sleep immediately. He remains upright, as if fixated on some visual cue across the room. When Tim does sink back into bed, it’s a near-soundless affair. 

\- 

It’s a slow morning. Tim wakes early but doesn’t go out for a run, let alone conduct any surveillance of Boyd’s position. He just stares at the unmoving dot on the GPS tracker, and when Raylan finally wakes around nine, Tim’s still doing just that. 

Raylan sees that Tim’s bag is packed, however. His own, too. They sit like stones against the mirror in the hall, opposite the beds. The reflection of multiple bags doesn't help to disprove Tim's earlier insinuation that Raylan is treating this chase like a vacation.

“Anything?” Raylan asks, groggily sitting up. He’s relieved he doesn’t have to start with some tone-deaf line about the conversation he’s certain Tim knows he overheard. 

“No,” Tim answers, not batting an eye as he reaches for his phone and passes it to Raylan. “Just a text from Jimmy.”

Raylan blinks a few times and squints at the phone before he can read the message: _today i think?_

"Is that a question?" Raylan snarks.

“Thought we should be ready,” Tim says. 

The phone buzzes while Raylan has it. Raylan hands it back while pretending he didn’t notice the caller ID reading, _Jack._

Tim answers and hears: “You _called?_ ” It’s very much a question. 

“Yeah, I did. Just wanted to know how your first day went.” Tim sets aside the laptop and heads towards the door. This is a conversation he means to have in the hallway, but Jack cuts it short. Tim has his hand on the knob, and is already hearing a hastily-rendered goodbye.

He’s not even out of earshot before he’s back into the main room and slipping his phone into his jeans pocket, his response of, _"Sure, yeah. Later,"_ tendered like a resignation.

“How’s the head?” Raylan asks, then spots the bottle of Advil on the bedside table. He pops open the cap and swallows two, dry. 

“I can drive,” Tim answers dully. 

“I was expressing heartfelt concern.”

“And shoot.”

“Well that’s all I wanted to know.” Raylan considers asking about either Jack or Jimmy, but holds his tongue, and cuts Tim a break from the constant reminder that people know more about him than he’d ever wanted to share. Raylan finds he can’t even talk about last night, because the reaction there was the one Tim had long been expecting. To finally get it, well, was a literal kick in the head. 

Raylan recognizes the tasteless joke for what it is, and starts his day within the limits of Tim’s self-imposed silence. The sweet smell of the club is gone now, replaced by something sour and dulled between the crisp hotel sheets. He’s in the shower, rinsing off the dank stink of alcohol, Veronica, and the club, when Tim himself breaks rank. 

Tim pounds twice on the bathroom door before letting himself in and all but throwing back the shower curtain. He’s of a one-track mind, now, as he gestures with the GPS tracker.

“We got movement,” Tim tells Raylan. “They’re heading through the city, going south. This could be the buy.” 

He’s excited--Raylan can tell--but his tone is cool, his demeanor professional. Never mind that by the time Raylan’s out of the shower, Tim has already checked them out of the hotel and moved their bags into the hall. It’s everything else that gives him away: a bottom lip red from his anxious chewing on it, a furrowed brow over brightened eyes. 

Raylan leaves a message for Veronica and Carmen at the front desk. He has Veronica’s phone number-- _hell,_ he even has the address of her summer home in Maine--but thinks she’ll get a kick out of the gesture. He considers buying them a bottle of champagne, but Tim’s taken to hollering at him from across the lobby to _move his ass,_ so he complies. Raylan finds himself in the Jeep no more than twenty minutes after waking up. His hair is still wet, and he is reduced to carrying his hat in his hand--like it was some regretful tourist confection bought in a moment of weakness. 

Tim is quick to set up the gear. It's obvious all the sitting around has been killing him, making him anxious where Raylan's been reveling in it. 

Tim, Raylan notices, sits pitched forward while driving. The goose egg under his ear negates any use of the headrest, but he does his damnedest to make it look natural, and not like the inconvenience it is. 

Raylan thinks about last night. Veronica was a pint-sized dynamo in the sack, but he can revisit those memories, later. He thinks about coming around some nameless street corner in Mexico only to see Tim barrel into a kid, break his nose and position himself to do worse. Raylan remembers not giving it a second thought--he ought to have Tim's back. But the fight was over, and Raylan's part in it was reduced to only breaking the two parties apart.

Raylan gives it some thought. It needn’t be sentimental or bumbling, this effort to reassure his colleague that one shitty experience isn’t indicative of what’s to come. Raylan’s had his ass kicked and been called a faggot before, but knows there’s a difference when the recipient hears only a lazy insult, not some damning judgment. He doesn't necessarily see that understanding reflected in Tim's flat expression, however. It doesn't change even as the sky opens up and reveals a beautiful blue expanse, endless and bright. The ground is warmed from brown to orange to gold. Bits of rock are turned to glittering diamonds in the distance. The entire country seems to be opening to Raylan's quietly met conclusion, but Tim remains closed-off and mute. 

As Tim takes the backroads to follow Boyd deeper into central Mexico, Raylan’s got nothing else to do but give thought to his comments. 

“You know, it’s like anything good,” Raylan takes a moment, makes sure Tim is listening because he only means to say this once, “People reject the value in it when it don’t apply to them.”

There's an uneasy moment of silence where Tim isn't expecting Raylan to comment, and in turn very much does not want to hear him doing so. “Great, thanks. I’ll file that away between the folds of my labia,” Tim says, crude humor being his best defense against the heartfelt and sincere. 

Raylan gives him a look like, _Who told you about those._ “I’m serious,” he presses, then stops and musters his last effort. “I ain’t trying to patronize you. All I’m saying is, _in case you haven’t tripped your thick skull into this conclusion on your own,_ that was fucked up. You didn’t deserve that.”

Tim is quiet for a time, and considering Raylan’s comment, maybe, or picturing himself in an alternate universe where Raylan minds his own business. “You know, I did paratrooper training.”

“That so?” Raylan thinks Tim is about to share a story equal to what played out last night.

“Jumping out of a moving vehicle is old hat for me,” Tim says, subverting Raylan’s expectations with a wry little smile. They continue driving, now in silence. 

But the smile fades the longer both men sit there, confined in space but somehow separated on entirely massive planes: victim turned victorious, aggressor relegated to peacemaker. They are new terms for each man. 

For Tim, this isn’t the first time he's had his head kicked in. It's only the first time his assailant wasn’t bigger, older, and stronger than he was, and in turn, the first time Tim didn't stay on the ground. 

Tim likes, at least, that _this time_ he wasn’t scared. 

But that pleasant notion soon passes, and Tim is left feeling cheated and wronged. It didn’t matter a lick that this time he fought back; he’s still sore and embarrassed--that doesn't change. Tim has the sinking feeling it never will. 

\- 

Mexico, Raylan thinks, is a hell of a place. The border and its tourist towns may prove effective fodder to keep the less adventurous at bay, but as they travel further south an entire world opens up. Mexico is lush and green, boasts sweeping mountainscapes that fall into quiet valleys. It’s not until the natural world begins to fall away from cracked, empty streets and the outlying life of a city that Raylan’s eye turns critical. There are pockets of children standing on dilapidated street corners, constantly being shooed away by slightly-older professionals. Narrowing in on the city brings a wealth of grand cathedrals and gleaming skyscrapers. 

Raylan’s at the wheel, now, and thinks that’s best. If Tim thought every pile of garbage on the street was a potential I.E.D., they’d have only gone about four feet in about as many hours.

“Ciudad Victoria,” Tim says, glancing between the GPS and the atlas laid out on his lap. 

“Los Zetas territory,” Raylan says, then frowns. “Guess Boyd’s playing fast and loose with whoever it is he’s meetin’ with.”

“Why do you say that?”

“El Ferrari,” Raylan says, sort of surprised Tim doesn’t know, “Headed up cartel activity in Victoria. Federales finally caught up with him not too long ago.”

“You think Boyd is meeting with a lower-level guy,” Tim posits, “Or another group entirely? Someone creeping in on uneven turf?”

Raylan shrugs; his guess is as good as any. 

“Pull over here,” Tim says. His eyes are glued to the GPS tracker. “Boyd’s been stopped for about half an hour. Looks like a school.”

While Tim coordinates between his phone, laptop, and the GPS receiver, Raylan fiddles with the radio. He finds a station boasting familiar blues and country tunes, but the lyrics are crooned in Spanish. The music is warm and pleasant, and Raylan gets lost in it like a fond memory. Somehow even _“Nacido en la U.S.A.”_ holds up. 

Tim’s phone buzzes. He doesn’t answer it immediately, instead moving fast to silence the radio. Raylan sees the name on the caller I.D., too, and is silent. Tim swipes a thumb over the screen. 

It’s not, as Tim immediately feared, Boyd. Or a cartel member who was smart enough to collect phones during the transaction and do a little investigating. 

But it’s not Jimmy, either. 

It’s muffled voices--mostly speaking in Spanish, a few in English, although neither Tim nor Raylan can identify the speakers. Raylan gestures to the pocket on his shirt, and Tim nods. It’s not the most original of schemes, and if found out there is little defense. 

Finally, Boyd Crowder’s particular brand of _Shakespearian methhead_ carries through the device. He sounds pleased, is thanking their hosts. 

_His voice is too clear. He’s too close._ Tim ends the call before they hear anything incriminating. 

“That was fucking stupid of him,” Tim says, eyes still on his phone, willing Jimmy _not_ to call back. 

“Could have been something,” Raylan says, his tone tight and disappointment broadcasting loudly. It’s not something he’ll say aloud--at least not yet--but Tim’s priorities are spiraling out of sync. He’s at once drawing Jimmy in too close and allowing him the freedom to break away. Raylan’s never had much in the way of confidential informants, himself, but this relationship reads like a waltz when really, they need Jimmy marching in lockstep with their objectives. 

“They’re on the move,” Tim says, grateful to have something other than his phone to consult. He glances at Raylan. “We’ll let ‘em pass. Could be they’ll have a tail.” 

Boyd doubles back. Tim studies his movements in silence until he swears, exclaims, “Shit. He’s turned down our street.” 

Because they’ve parked the car in a lot facing the street, there’s no time to do anything more than duck down in their seats. Tim and Raylan have to wait him out. Raylan thinks to pluck his familiar hat from his head just in time before he spies Boyd. 

“ _Son of a bitch._ There he is.” 

The grin is unmistakable, even if Raylan only sees it through a passing car window and for all of half a second. It’s Boyd, the happiest he’s ever been outside the company of Ava. 

Tim doesn’t risk a peek; he doesn’t need to. He watches the road for any follow cars, and thinks he’s spied one, maybe two possible contenders. He waits a while longer before signaling Raylan to return to the road.

There’s a new energy to their pursuit, Tim finds. Raylan doesn’t tease the radio looking for a worthwhile station. They ride in silence, neither chatting to pass the time or even to process what’s happening; it is all understood. Their thoughts are drawn only to this singular objective. 

\- 

When darkness falls, they’ve only exchanged a handful of words--“Hungry?” “Yeah.” “Piss break?”--and have silently accepted that sleep may not be an option tonight. Boyd seems to be as anxious as they’ve been for this deal, and will see to its nearest completion. 

They’re stopping for coffee when Tim next hears from Jimmy. He sends a text this time--not some boneheaded call made in the presence of cartel members.

Jimmy’s text reads, _Boyd’s car broke down._

“Fuck,” Tim swears and waits impatiently for more. “Wait,” he tells Raylan, who is debating the merits of _limon_ versus _chili limon_ flavoring on corn chips. 

_He’s riding w/ me._

Tim shares the texts with Raylan, asks what he makes of them. 

“Horseshit,” Raylan snaps. He forgets the chips and he and Tim return to the Jeep to deliberate. They study the GPS receiver, which is stagnant.

“So he put the tracker back on Boyd’s truck,” Tim reasons.

“When,” Raylan says, although it’s hardly a question. “ _When_ did he do that. And _why._ ” 

“When they stopped,” Tim shoots back, but he knows he’s overplayed his hand. It’s the kind of thing Jimmy would have jumped at the opportunity to tell Tim-- _impress him with,_ even. Raylan knows as much.

“He told him,” Raylan says, and there’s a certainty that reverberates through every word he speaks, and Tim briefly confuses being told an opinion with being told the truth. “Jimmy got scared and told Boyd about the tracker. They’ve ditched it and are still driving. I’d bet anything.”

“Best case scenario,” Tim starts slow, “Is that Jimmy is telling the truth. What then? They don’t have room to fit all that shit in Boyd’s truck into Jimmy’s and the third. They’re going to get the truck fixed.”

“Or tow it,” Raylan says, deciding to humor Tim for the time being. Then, it's like a fire is started in Raylan’s lap, and he smacks the dashboard angrily. “Jesus, Tim. Jimmy’s pulling a fast one on you. If the dope ain’t in the vehicle they’re driving, they got reason not to lay claim to it.” 

Tim’s expression constricts. “Bullshit.”

“It is, but I’ve seen it fly in court more than once.”

“Jimmy’s not lying to me.” 

“Christ almighty,” Raylan throws up his hands, and it’s a good thing he’d not driving.

“We go to the convoy,” Tim says. “We see what there is to see.” He takes Raylan’s silence as agreement. It’s a poor plan, a strategic blunder, but it’s that or potentially fall behind hours of travel.

Nagging doubt eats at Tim as they drive closer to where the tracker is stopped. He doesn't believe Jimmy would lie--not now, not after risking the pocket dial to clue the Marshals in on the buy itself--but he supposes he can't be sure. When they drive as far as either is willing, they cut the headlights, park, and continue on foot--Tim’s sniper rifle and night vision scope in tow. They circle around, making a wide half-circle from their car to the position of the broken convoy. It’s dark and there’s enough brush for Tim and Raylan to hide in plain sight. Still, they crouch low and settle into a position for sustained surveillance. 

It is a relief, then, to see Boyd's truck stalled on the side of the road, another drawn up near it. Jimmy’s own truck is nowhere to be seen.

Tim passes the scope to Raylan and although he says nothing, there’s triumph in the gesture. 

Tim swallows down a sigh of relief. He’d rather not entertain--much less _accept_ \--the possibility of Jimmy lying to him. A vehicle, they can track. If Jimmy gets loose there’s more for Tim at stake than a fucked operation and wasted tax dollars. There’s the little fact that Tim’s said things to Jimmy, _done things to him,_ that cannot be recovered. It’s not stolen property that’s dangerous; information is. It’s a killer.

The third in their group is some shitkicker who Raylan vaguely recognizes as one of the regulars caught up in Boyd’s antics whenever the law nets a few. He’s spooked, aiming a gun at every turn. Wind could rustle through a patch of thorny grass and he’d just as soon as pull. In that respect, he’s not to be trifled with. Tim and Raylan keep their distance. It’s nearly half an hour before Boyd and Jimmy return.

Sure enough, the pair have in their possession a stolen tow truck. 

Both Tim and Raylan have their doubts about a towed vehicle passing seamlessly through border patrol, but it’s a good bet Boyd has a plan for that, too. They decide to wait until Boyd rigs up his car and departs with the convoy before starting back towards their Jeep. Unfortunately, it’s a slow process and Boyd’s bumbling third nearly takes off the fender. Beside him, Tim feels Raylan roll over onto his back. Raylan stares up at the wide expanse of stars and blackened sky, a blissed-out smile spread across his face. He’s having the time of his life watching Boyd fuck up out here. 

Tim can’t help but smile, too. 

Eventually, it’s Jimmy who secures the load, taps twice against the tow truck Boyd is now driving, and sets them off down the road again.

There’s bits of grass and dirt on the back of Raylan’s blue plaid coat. It gives Tim something to look at while Raylan guides then with a flashlight back to the Jeep.

“Hey,” Tim exclaims, jogging to catch up to Raylan after his phone buzzes with a text from Jimmy. It’s a photo of the back of Boyd’s car, taken while Jimmy rigged it to the tow truck. the corner of a blanket is swept back to reveal neat stacks of cocaine, wrapped tight in plastic and tape. Each package is secure, professionally rendered. They are stacked five high, possibly seven back--and that’s just what they can see in the hastily taken photo. Tim does the math in his head and accounts for two more vehicles. Judging by the look on Raylan’s face, the cowboy Marshal has come to the same conclusion. 

Raylan’s wide grin is illuminated by the glow of Tim’s cell phone. 

“I take it all back,” he says. “That Jimmy is a swell guy. You got good taste.”

\- 

An entire night of driving is expected, but not met. Boyd pulls off the road and into the company of a crumbling church around four in the morning. Pressing on could take them to and through the border. Jimmy texts that Boyd has a guy at patrol, but he isn’t on shift until mid-morning. There’s nothing else around them but desert--and maybe God, if Boyd still believes in that sort of thing. The church sits in the middle of nowhere, a white, sandblasted little structure with a spire that reaches hungrily for the heavens. 

Stopped some miles back, it’s too cold to roll down the top of the Jeep and sleep under a blanket of sky and space. Instead, Raylan and Tim rest their seats back as far as they can manage, and stare out their respective side windows. The sky is a great, terrifying expanse of stars. To even glance upwards is to be drawn in and deemed a witness to something profound. Tim knows he’s first to look away, take in the desert earth instead. He has the distinct feeling that he’s risking something by staring. To feel lost would be to know peace, Tim thinks, but in not so many words. 

He glances at Raylan and sees a similar weariness draw itself in lines across his partner’s brow. Neither can sleep; neither wants to close his eyes. 

It’s practically bright out--and brighter still. Tim sits up, the first to notice a pair of headlights fast approaching. He and Raylan arm themselves with only their guns, leaving their badges stowed. Tim gets out of the car. 

“I’ll cover,” he says, and takes off at a sprint into the dark. 

Raylan’s more than practiced with a standoff. He does away with any pretentions, and goes the direct route: parking the Jeep longways in the road, barring any trespassers. If he and Tim had overreacted, it’s an easy fix--that’s when the badges come out, along with some broken Spanish even Raylan can manage. If they’re right to expect trouble, then at least they’re in position.

The car stops a ways away and two men step out. They’re well-dressed and clean shaven, and Raylan considers the odds that these are the men Boyd bought from, looking to retrieve their score and keep the downpayment all the same.

The shorter of the two pulls back his coat to reveal a shiny pistol, but the one ahead of him keeps his cool. 

When he stops a short ways from Raylan, he brings his hands to his front and laces them, like he’s loosely praying. “You got my dope,” he says. It’s not a question.

Raylan eyeballs the excitable one and wonders where Tim is at. “I’m sorry, you’ve confused me with some other gringo.”

“That’s funny,” the man says, but doesn’t smile. “You all look alike to me.”

Raylan spies a shadow of movement between the stopped car’s lights, and knows it’s Tim at the ready. His ringed finger dances lightly on the butt of his sidearm. Raylan is equal parts eager, excited, and sleep-deprived. If only these assholes knew. 

Raylan gives a winning smile. “I’m bettin’ I can make a lasting impression.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really apologize for the wait on this chapter. It was a combination of work responsibilities, some family issues, and a general loss of interest in my own story. I still want to see it finished, however, so I'm trying my best to make it a worthwhile end. 
> 
> Many thanks to all those who are still reading. I appreciate it!

Tim hides himself within the shadows folding against the two vehicles, their respective high beams, and the bright night sky. He can hear Raylan bullshit the fella for time, and Tim appreciates that. They need to establish an advantage, a task that can be done quickly, but never in haste. Truthfully, Tim isn't sure Raylan understands that--maybe he's just happy to toy with the man, taunt and tease him while Tim coincidentally gets into position. 

Tim slows and quiets his breathing as he stands low, his back flush with the side of the gun-toting strangers' car. From his vantage point peaking through the cars own windows, he can see, but is not seen. 

As soon as the second man starts towards his companion--and beyond him, Raylan--Tim abandons the relative safety of his cover. He comes up behind the second and, contrary to his military training, reveals his presence. It's a split-second judgment call, the idea that he doesn't need to take this guy out. Instead, Tim whistles once. It's a sharp sound that pierces the blanket of black night hugging their forms. The man, startled, drops his weapon and throws his hands up over his head. His face screws up in terror and his knees buckle. Tim raises an eyebrow; they are new at this.

Raylan's target turns, sees the state of his companion and the mean-looking man behind him, the pale demon who slinks between the light of the high beams. He's armed with more than a sniper rifle--he has a look on his face that suggests he wants to use it. 

"Your amigo has the right idea," Raylan says, and readies his weapon in silence; the deafening sound of him cocking the hammer back passed long ago. He gestures as though the pistol is a natural extension of his hand. In that gesture is a confidence perhaps more terrifying than Tim's eagerness. "How about you join him?"

The man is furious at his companion, but keeps a cool head. He has bigger problems than a coward at his side. He looks between the cowboy and the sniper, and decides there isn't really one he'd like to deal with over the other. Still, he's closest to the cowboy. 

"This is a misunderstanding," he says. Even if he was only part of the operation that sold to Boyd, but did not deal with him directly, he finally figures out these are _not_ the cocaine smugglers he is looking for. He adds, “Gentlemen.” 

Raylan laughs like he’s heard a joke.

The man opens his free hand in a gesture that's meant to be appeasing. Tim just sees movement. He wants to get closer, but to do that must first neutralize the coward. Tim closes in on him, wedges his rifle into the man's back for show, and puts him on the ground. The man whispers a pleading, never-ending prayer. If Tim recognizes it at all, the references are drawn from Spanish soap operas, not schooling. 

The leader doesn't spare them a second glance; his blubbering companion is a lost cause. "Are you cops?" 

"Is that your biggest concern at the moment?" Raylan asks, doubtful. He sounds annoyed when he levels his own pistol and orders, "Drop your weapon."

The man’s been cautious up to this point. His hand has settled more firmly on his glock, his grip tightened around the handle. If he waits any longer, the gringos might suspect he’s got backup, get spooked and plug them both. He's at a place now where he could take his shot, but surely swallow another in his spine. It isn't the desired end, so he finally opens his palms and appeals for calm. 

At Raylan's signal--a nod--Tim steps forward and takes the weapon off the man, and orders him to his knees. The man swings out an arm and curls in on Tim, like he means to wrestle away the rifle. Tim doesn't cave to the theatrics, will not lower himself to grapple for what is so assuredly _his._ He punches the man in the side of the head, plain and simple. It's a sharp, quick gesture that surprises even Raylan. But the low-life deserves it; to go for his rifle, the man might as well have tried for Tim's dick. No man would easily surrender his most precious cargo. 

The man puts his hands behind his head and kneels. Crouched and small, he cuts a sorry silhouette through his own car’s high beams.

As planned, Tim's sneak attack ends the standoff, and Raylan doesn't get to fire so much as a warning shot. It's a little disappointing, really. But it is for the better: Boyd and his team are not so far away that they couldn't hear a round barrel out like thunder in the night. 

Tim and Raylan consider those exact circumstances: to delay these guys is to deal with a potential problem for Boyd. As far as moral rights and wrongs, it's deeply settled in the latter. But strategically, it is the smarter decision. 

Tim very quickly gets anxious sitting on these two without a plan to move forward. 

"Gonna check the car," Tim says, and relates in Spanish that he's leaving the two in the company of an expert at the quick draw. In their car, he finds the essentials: duct tape, body bags, shovels, extra ammo. It's quite the haul, and in numbers such to believe they disappear people fairly often, or this is their first--albeit, _failed_ \--attempt. Tim retrieves a handful of plastic zip ties and returns to their stalled showdown in the middle of the road. 

Looking down at their vanquished foes, neither Raylan nor Tim says anything; they don't have to. The same thought is troubling them both: _What are the chances these are the sellers looking to steal back their supply?_

“Is this aiding and abetting a crime?” Tim asks, his tone damn near conversational as he zip-ties one of the desperados' legs together at the ankle. He cinches them tight, let's them cut into the leather of his shiny boots. The legs are positioned as such that to even kick them off and loosen the binds is impossible. 

Raylan shrugs. He's at the other fella, doing the same. “We don’t know whose dope they’re planning to steal.”

Tim collects a cell phone from the pocket of the shorter man, and Raylan finds a similar device on his guy. Raylan pockets them both, then dusts off the knee of his jeans and stands with Tim a ways away. Together, they consider their situation. 

"We sit on them for a couple hours," Raylan says. He drops his voice, and coupled with the distance he's sure the men can't hear them. "Keep quiet, play it safe." 

"And then?"

"We got some time, yet, to come to that." 

Tim and Raylan do the desperados the courtesy of positioning them on their sides, with the instruction that it's going to be a long night and they're welcome to sleep.

Tim takes first watch, and during those three hours Raylan dozes off. Tim decides not to wake him. It's not that he doesn't trust Raylan to keep watch, but this situation feels familiar enough as it is, so Tim cuts himself some slack for wanting to heed SOP. He checks his phone, checks the GPS receiver, and finds no movement with either. He leaves the Jeep and steps quietly to where the men are held captive. Like Raylan, they've found sleep a more pleasant option to waking terror. Tim supposes he can't blame them. Although he wants to creep north and check on Jimmy and the stalled cargo, Tim knows he can't risk it.

There's also a healthy fear of finding _nothing_ \--just the tracking device lodged in the desert sand, abandoned--that keeps Tim at his post. That he'd surrender potential intel for a sense of security confuses him; it's a concept utterly counter to his own code. In both the professional and personal realms, he'd never allow himself to be distracted by hopeful imaginings. 

He rests his head back and finds what he thinks is the horizon, even in the dark of night. There’s a little shred of light there, always, or so Tim’s convinced himself. It’s curved and no greater in width than a single human hair. But Tim knows he’s seen it--is seeing it now, even. 

Sat back in the Jeep, his focus split between his hostages, the GPS receiver, and the sky, Tim spends a few hours talking himself out of one or more plans. He's currently working with the idea of putting some distance between them, then calling it in. That plan is dependent on them finding a working pay phone, however, and not losing track of Boyd.

"We gotta wrap this up," Tim says. It's his wake-up call to Raylan, who stirs, but seems to have heard the sentiment. 

There's another part of Tim which might find its equal in Raylan: the part of him that thinks, _why not kill them?_ It was the robbers' plan for them, after all. 

Tim knows how it would have gone if he was on patrol, military-grade firepower on his hip instead of a piece of shiny tin. 

Raylan, who has faced this problem a considerable number of times, has a solution. Still sleep-addled, he ransacks the first man's pockets and finds what he's looking for: an ornate pocket knife. He tests to see it isn't just for show, bejeweled handle and all. Meanwhile, Tim drags their two hostages out from the comfort of the blanket he'd set down. One is too heavy for his to get very far, and the other struggles and thrashes against Tim's legs. 

Once satisfied with the quality of the knife, Raylan tosses it on the ground before the nearest hostage.

“Can you get to that?” Raylan asks, and when the man only scowls Tim repeats the question in Spanish. He even points to the knife, because it's still dark out. Tim can feel morning and light buzz at the backs of his eyes, but knows anyone who got so much as a few hours of sleep can't possibly feel what he feels.

"I speak fucking English," the man spits, and gets cocky despite his current state at these Yankees' mercy. "I been to America, too."

"Oh yeah?" Raylan asks, genuinely interested. He's a people-person at heart. "Whereabouts?" 

"Vegas," the man says proudly. "And Sioux Falls." 

Raylan is a little impressed by that last one. 

"Well I'll promise you one thing, this'll be a much shorter trip," Raylan says, then swaggers over to where the knife landed and lays the toe of his boot on it.

The man wriggles, gets to it, but Raylan drops down to pick it up before the man can even attempt to wield it. “Fantastic,” Raylan commends. "Nice hustle." Then, he hurls the knife into the desert. 

The man lets rip a string of swears--some Spanish, some not, all directed squarely at the cowboy Marshal. 

“Qué?” the one nearest Tim asks. He’s still facedown in the dirt, terrified. 

"You’ll figure it out,” Raylan says. That much Spanish, spoken with _that much_ terror, Raylan understands. 

Off in the distance, the light catches on the knifeblade. For just one moment, it gleams brilliantly. 

With the man's dark eyes still on him, Raylan makes the most of his audience. He takes both phones from his pockets and sends them sailing in the opposite direction. It's a test to determine which they value most: their lives or their enterprise. 

“You having fun?” Tim asks as they leave the desperados to their task and pile back into the Jeep. Admittedly, he feels relieved. Raylan's slick antics displaced more drastic measures, and Tim finds himself hopelessly pleased by such a turn. He doesn't so much mind a departure from the clear-cut road he knows. He's even starting to appreciate Raylan's style, god help him. 

“I’m getting into the spirit,” Raylan agrees. He's too cool to look pleased with himself, but he is that. _Immensely._

Raylan's taken the driver's side, not oblivious to the fact that he got a good few hours of sleep at Tim's expense. 

In the rearview mirrors, they can see two desperados inching along into the desert, slowing making chase after the cell phones. It's enough assurance for Raylan that they were after Boyd and his coke, after all, and mean to call in reinforcements. It isn't something to concern themselves with immediately, and for the time being Raylan puts it at the back of his mind.

“That was cool,” Tim grudgingly admits. 

"Thought you might like it." 

\- 

The border patrol officer waves Boyd and his crew in without so much as a _Howdy-do_ or a _Sir can you please step outside of your cocaine mobile?_ Tim and Raylan can't figure if he's in on the operation, or is just lazy. He waves them in, too. 

"America thanks you for your service," Raylan calls as they drive on through. 

But Boyd's not in the clear, yet. There's still the matter of driving across the United States with a truck bed full of illicit materials. To this point, Boyd keeps to the back roads. They scale the coast of Texas, passing sweet little beach towns in the early morning. Neither Tim nor Raylan are necessarily prepared to take residential streets for their route home. The highway makes for ideal cover--they can stay close so long as there's traffic, and there's no slick maneuvering Boyd could execute to fall out of line. There is some mounting concern for their cars--one loaded with cocaine and firearms, the other just firearms and two masterful users--traveling roads like _Summertime Lane_ and _Starfish Boulevard_. 

It isn't until Louisiana that it really starts to get to them. Stopped at a light, a score of kids race by, basketball under the leader's arm.

Tim calls Vasquez and communicates their concern. 

"He's got the cocaine," Tim reiterates. "Can we bust him now?"

But Vasquez has big ideas, and Tim listens through a string of them. He wants to connect Boyd to any lower-tier sellers, build up to the kind of bust that shakes up Kentucky and makes national headlines. On the latter, he wants more than a few fleeting shots of stacked piles of cocaine. He wants names, flowcharts, a _timeline._ The whole three minute leading segment with all the trimmings. Like Vasquez tells Tim, getting the facts out there for the public will only bolster their case.

Tim and Raylan can appreciate the desire for follow-through, and for bringing this home to Kentucky, but the getting there is nerve-wracking. Taking their time along winding residential streets, stopping at every corner and following speed restrictions gives both men too much time to think.

They realize that, strangely, they’ve been hoping for this. They’ve wanted Boyd to succeed, at some level, because it proves their case against him isn't some ginned-up fantasy. More and more, Tim doesn't want to tie the whole thing back to his bizarre night as Boyd's captive. This is so much better--perhaps less diabolical, but surely so more _criminal_. And it doesn't hurt, Tim admits, to be among the story's heroes, not its victims. 

The more he considers the ideal victory, however, Tim becomes aware of its slow derailment. 

Taking the back roads is one thing. Scaling the entire gulf coast is another. 

Tim wishes Jimmy was in a position to feed him information, to clue him into this strange, swooping arc in Boyd's travels. When they hit Alabama and are still hugging the shoreline, Tim knows.

He doesn't say anything, to start. He is still hoping for a divine curve northwards, something to counter the facts. 

Even in his silence, however, the truth is discovered. 

"Shit, Tim, _what?_ Your face falls any farther, I'm gonna be carrying it up a flight of stairs."

Of course Raylan notices. Tim's been eyeballing the GPS receiver just as much as Raylan has, and doesn't have the added excuse of keeping course. Tim's brow furrows deeper still. He rubs his face, feels a day’s worth of growth and his tired expression. "Boyd's not going to take the exit back to Kentucky."

Raylan frowns. "He missed it?" There are a thousand ways back to Kentucky, and given the desperados quick on Boyd's tail out of Mexico, it makes sense that he'd forge an alternate route.

"He's not going to take it. He's going somewhere else."

Raylan’s mouth twists as he accepts Tim’s concept, mulls it over, decides. 

“Well, we didn’t think he’d make this easy on us, did we?”

\- 

Boyd doesn’t pull over until well after fourteen hours of driving. On the highway, that kind of time might really mean something. Taking the backroads like they are, it’s put them no further than the watery outskirts of Mobile. Raylan and Tim are quick to turn in after him, because the break affords them a few hours sleep. Even at some cockroach-infested shithole, it’s a welcome reprieve. 

It’s dusk the following day before their destination becomes clear: Florida. 

Raylan lets out an audible groan the second Boyd’s coastal driving finally takes a downward dip over that preferred northern arc. Tim almost asks why Raylan would put Florida above Mexico in terms of how bad shit can go down, but remembers Tommy Bucks, the ordeal that brought Raylan back to Kentucky in the first place, and sees reason. 

Florida reeks. This is Tim's first thought, having never been there. He did Glynco training in Georgia, same as any Marshal, and that has its own putrid brand of stink--warm and wet, moss and plant spores, trash--burning and not. The whole state smells like it was cultivated in some warmed-over corner of a broken mini-fridge sat out on someone's lawn. 

But _Florida._ It seems to luxuriate in working itself into a sweat, steaming in its juices, and aerating itself. It reminds Tim of Army stink, gear sweat-soaked and dried, and everything that was once white--t-shirts, underwear--now a sickly yellow. It’s a yellowy smell, sweat. Even when Tim’s unit returned to base and got clean wears, the smell was baked in--the filling to a shit pie. 

In Florida, it’s a stink that gets into Tim’s sinuses and then settles in his chest. Raylan seems used to it--a fate Tim cannot even will himself to contemplate. He _hopes_ they’re not here long. Ideally, Florida is where Boyd Crowder adds some meth into the mix, maybe runs a few red lights, drives with expired plates--something, _anything_ to add to the list. 

But do nothing, chiefly, to wipe the thing clean. 

Raylan has a hard time understanding what in the hell Boyd could do to accomplish _that_ particularly far-fetched miracle, but understands stranger things have happened. 

Tim laughs when Raylan says as much, and Raylan distinctly hears it: amusement. Tim thinks it's funny that Raylan would entertain a moral turn for Boyd. 

“When you followed him down the mines,” Tim starts to say, going off on a tangent from some conversation long-ago dropped. Raylan shoots him a look and Tim just shrugs. “It was you doin’ the following, wasn’t it? Unless you want credit for coming up with that genius idea all on your own.”

“I think you’ve made your point,” Raylan drawls. Being in the mines is something he was never proud of--even when for the six months that he worked those dark, skyless tombs. “Yeah, I followed him down there. So what?”

It's not as simple as that, but that's another one of the things Raylan doesn't think he has to clarify for Tim. Not now. 

“Did you think you could die?” Tim asks, and when Raylan doesn’t answer right away, continues, “And if you did, were you also thinking Boyd had the wherewithal to save your life?”

Raylan bites back a strange little smile. “Honestly, Tim, I hadn’t given it half as much thought as you.” 

“Is that why you like him?” Tim doesn’t know why, but he can’t let Raylan get away with a non-answer. “Because he surprises you?” 

“ _You_ surprise me. And I don’t much care for you, truth be told.” 

Raylan doesn’t sell it, but Tim isn’t buying, anyway.

“No, really. I’m asking.”

Raylan huffs, indignant. “You’re spouting sleep-deprived bullshit, is what you’re doing. I don’t like Boyd none. You may even recall that _I shot him._ ”

Tim isn’t convinced. He lays it on thick: “Time was you could shoot a fella and he’d stay dead.” 

“Good times,” Raylan agrees. “Simpler times.” 

They stop at a light and Tim closes his eyes. Despite the few hours of sleep at a hotel in Alabama, he’s tired. Driving these winding coastal roads doesn’t help. When he opens them again, he’s staring down his own shirtfront. Tim realizes he hasn’t changed clothes in three days, and spares a glance at Raylan to confirm that he’s alone in this. Somehow, Raylan’s showered and clean, dressed in a green henley layered under a gray-checkered flannel, and neither share in Tim’s wrinkled aesthetic. 

Tim gets a touch more uncomfortable in his own clothes, still, when he realizes the hoodie is the one he fooled around with Jimmy in.

Because he can’t simply purge those thoughts from his head, Tim convinces himself they were just part of a story. 

Tim figures he should benefit from Raylan’s attention while he’s got it. It’s so fleeting a thing--Raylan’s particular brand of focus--that if he ain’t facing a target or romancing someone, there’s really no room to maneuver. 

“I just wanna know you’re up for doing… whatever needs to be done.” Tim wets his lips, adds, “Shooting Boyd in the face, specifically.”

“Jesus, Tim. _Subtlety._ It’s an art, learn it.” Raylan scowls and looks out the window. He sees the sparkling hint of water in the distance and averts his gaze. Florida doesn’t bother him so much as the idea that Boyd’s made plans there. Raylan can’t help but imagine where Boyd got the idea from, and if he’s reached out to former foes of Raylan’s to get a deal done. 

The idea of being the unintended middleman--of sorts--for Boyd doesn’t sit well with him. It’s more _that_ than genuine ire for Tim’s company that starts Raylan off again. He snarks divisively, “I know his Driving Miss Daisy routine didn’t go over well with you, but--” 

Raylan stops because Tim’s grinning so wide his teeth might as well be screaming. There’s no talking over it. 

Despite the wild grin, there's something dark growing behind Tim's eyes. It unsettles Raylan, and he suddenly finds his stalled silence take on the weight of permanence. 

When Tim speaks, his tone belies no good humor. “You think I got all worked up over nothing, don’t you? _Shit._ All this,” Tim waves a hand--the Jeep, the travel, the sleeplessness--like it’s all just fantastical trappings on a poorly crafted play. 

Raylan doesn’t shoot down the idea. 

Tim’s expression hardens. “Just 'cause I don’t run over fucking trash in the road, I don’t know when a man means to kill me?” 

“I’m sure you’re well-versed in exactly that,” Raylan says diplomatically. He’s had these doubts all along, but his temper is only now just short enough to get him talking. He's long harbored the nagging thought that Tim's interest in Boyd can't last. It's the product of a humiliating experience, sure, but Tim has thick skin and those feelings fade. Raylan knows better than to say what he means, so he couches it in the safety of an unknown: "But I can’t discount whatever Boyd dosed you with maybe… _enhanced_ things.” 

“Well don’t forget the drinking and the PTSD, now,” Tim drawls, voicing Raylan’s meaning if the man himself won’t. Tim doesn't hear a gentle allowance for his own riled behavior, but rather, an accusation. He's more sensitive about these things than his own jokes and commentary lets on. Contrary to Raylan's thinking, Tim prefers someone calling out his bullshit--if indeed the situation necessitates it. Tim's not so self- _unaware_ that he thinks there hasn't been bullshit. 

But he knows what he experienced, understands what happened even outside of the context of how he still feels about it. Meaning, Boyd Crowder is a worse sort than Raylan gives him credit for.

“I’m not saying,” Raylan starts, then surrenders. “I’m just saying.”

Raylan can feel Tim’s anger there in the Jeep. It’s in the way Tim starts to speed and very nearly blows past a stop sign. 

They pull over because Boyd and Jimmy have done so. Tim figures they've finally come across a particularly short-staffed car wash, and mean to rid their vehicles of that telltale Mexico dust. 

Raylan and Tim, alternatively, simply stall themselves on the side of the road in wait. Raylan watches the GPS receiver, and Tim watches the roads. 

“Suicide bombers,” Tim begins coolly, never once glancing at Raylan to make sure he’s listening. Tim knows from experience that people will listen if what they hope to hear is a good war story. “Never bothered me. I mean, _fuck those guys mouth, eyes, ears, and ass,_ but at least they’ve got a clear line of sight. They know the mechanics of what they’re doing, even if their eternity ain’t so much a paradise as it is scattered across some marketplace, dinner for stray dogs.” 

Tim's expression hardens. What he's talking about isn't theoretical, it's factual and drawn from memory. “Those are the grunts. What concerns me is the higher-ups, the guys who don’t see the consequences for themselves. The guys who can take lives and never know anything beyond inconvenience.”

Raylan can see Tim's point a mile away, but likes Tim taking the time to get there. It isn't often he has so much to say.

Tim continues, “Their followers? Think they must have tapped into something higher, something profound. ‘Cause otherwise, those guys-- _guys like Boyd_ \--are just fucking insane.” Tim watches a crumpled up McDonalds napkin cross the street on the back of a breeze. "Boyd was gonna kill me, until he wasn’t. He can just as easily change his mind again. About you, too.”

Raylan knows Tim isn't wrong, there. And he knows that because what Tim has described is his own logic towards Boyd reflected back at him. There's always been that understanding between them. 

Tim spies on the GPS receiver that Boyd is up and moving again, so he readies the Jeep for pursuit. He adds sharply as he pulls out, “And if I'm scared of anything, it’s that he’ll kill you, and you will look like _such a giant fucking idiot,_ ” he says each word with the weight of the eulogy he imagines having to give, “that people will think less of me by association.” 

“The horror,” Raylan smirks. Tim has let him off the hook, but there’s a new understanding between them, about Boyd and about the work. Raylan accepts with a little more faith what he always knew.

Raylan understands that moral superiority isn't his lot in life, but it's hardly Tim's, either. And he wouldn't be true to himself if he didn't get a few digs in.

"This ain't been a picnic, you know." Raylan scratches at his throat where the hairs are just a few days too long. "You. The driving. Mexico. Mostly you." Raylan knows he's been more trouble to Tim than the other way around, but it's all innocuous bullshit, like Raylan bearing witness to Tim's ticks, or wanting to make the best of their boring detail. The double date in Mexico may have been a little much, but Raylan maintains it all came from a place of generosity and being completely _tapped out_ of Tim's company. 

Still, he has to give this one to Tim. 

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't think something would come of it," Raylan admits. "You're a dog on these things. I knew that at the start. It may have slipped my mind." 

"Apology accepted."

Raylan rolls his eyes; it’s hardly an _apology._ "Can you blame me, though? You opened up to me. That was unnecessary."

"Agreed," Tim says staunchly. He's still smarting over that one. 

"Threw me off my game."

Tim cuts a hand through the air, affirmative. "It'll never happen again."

Raylan smiles under the shade of his hat. "See that it don't." 

Tim’s right hand takes off like a shot, and his fingers punch at the car stereo. The first station he finds that isn’t honky-tonk country or talk radio, he clings to. It’s a bluesy-rock station, something more along the lines of what they’d listened to throughout Louisiana--both times. 

A crease appears along Raylan’s brow, but it’s hidden by the wide brim of his hat. He leans forward and silences the volume on the radio. “You know I’m just kidding--”

And here Tim was thinking he'd get away with it.

“Holy _shit_ can we not? Ever?” 

Tim has to will himself to look at Raylan. It’s a struggle, because Tim anticipates a very particular _look_ in return--the bastard child of concern and consternation. But Tim gets none of that; Raylan’s just grinning as big and wide as Tim had done, previously. 

“Christ,” he laughs, “This is too damn easy.”

Tim smiles despite himself. The shit Raylan’s serving him is no less playful, no more biting than before. It’s impossible for Tim to believe it, given his input in the last few days, but it’s almost as though nothing has changed. The extent of the teasing now isn't geared towards Tim's particular brand of feelings, just the fact that he _has_ them. 

Still, it’s difficult to keep a good mood when the thought of Boyd Crowder pulling one over on them looms heavy and close. They tail him for a while longer, weaving in and out of Boyd’s direct path. Soon, there are no more sideroads to sideroads, and the coastal waters are lost behind drooping trees and sagging plantlife. Bits of earth float atop what once could have been ocean, but is now too dark, too near, to be anything but angry swamplands. 

They fall further behind Boyd as they become beholden to but a single dirt road baked into the earth in two strict lines of tracks, remnants of only the odd vehicle passing through. 

When Boyd’s cavalcade finally comes to a halt, Raylan and Tim are faced with another problem: how to proceed. If by car, they’ll likely come upon Boyd and lose the element of surprise. Tim doesn’t think about it at first, but Raylan makes the point: if they’re looking to make a new deal with their haul, chances are they’re not going to stray far from their loot. Alternatively, to follow on foot means a trek outfitted with little else than the clothes on their backs and all the weapons they can carry. They opt for the latter, and Tim empties his duffle of wrinkled clothes and a loose toothbrush to bring along extra ammo and the zip ties collected in Mexico after running interference for Boyd.

“You didn’t bring the body bags?” Raylan asks.

“I look like a Boy Scout to you?” At the time, Tim figured even the zip ties for a lark. By that point, they still believed Boyd planned a swift return to his old Kentucky home.

Raylan makes a quick call to Dan, the Chief Deputy in Miami and his former boss, and clues him in on a few roundabout details. He ends their short chat with a defensive, “No, not just me. Deputy Gutterson here is a constant source of entertainment.” 

Raylan listens to Dan a moment, then huffs annoyedly, “He’s about fifteen years my junior, Dan. The _hell_ if he’s my minder.”

Finally, Raylan offers, “Tim, Dan says if shit goes south that I’m a lost cause and you should save yourself.”

“Hey, Art told me the same thing.”

“And that’s what makes a good Chief Deputy.” 

Raylan ends the call with Dan’s confirmation that locals will be awaiting their call. Then, he watches as Tim finishes packing the bag, then cinches up the lone strap on the duffle to wear it close to his body and high off the ground. 

That’s the other thing. 

“Ruining my goddamn boots,” Raylan mutters as they park the Jeep on the dryest patch of grass and dirt they can find. It still leaves them to step out into a new kind of earth wholly unlike Mexico. There, the hard ground and dusty surface seemed to repel all visitors. Here, the earth engulfs them, draws them into an uneasy embrace. Raylan's leather boots sink into the muck and although Tim's combat boots fare better, they're only water resistant to a point. He'd be better served on rough and rocky terrain, hot but not so humid. 

That’s not an option, here. Tim sinks with each step, and finds it difficult to keep quiet and move quickly. Raylan forgoes the former, and sloshes right on through the muck. He’s got the portable GPS receiver in one hand, his firearm in the other, and a second down the waist of his jeans. Tim can spot it under the loose flannel. Tim isn’t sure how he feels about Raylan--and himself--being armed to the teeth. He’ll take it over being without his rifle anyday, but visuals matter. Tim supposes both he and Raylan are familiar enough with the dangers of barging in on some other man’s land, toting heavy firepower and looking ready to use it. To some, it’s a warning. To the kinds of fellas they’re after, it will _always_ be an invitation. 

Their first steps into the swamp are encouraging: the water is mostly clear, maybe just ankle deep. Soon, however, they start to hit patches that reach their shins. Raylan makes a misstep that leads to his right leg being taken in by the waters well up to his thigh. They find a kind of natural path of mossy rocks and threaded plantlife that 

Being in a swamp makes Tim think of trench foot, although he knows they won't be hanging around long enough to contract it. But Raylan--who has surely heard stories from Arlo--voices his concerns, first.

"If I lose so much as a goddamn toe to this bullshit operation, I'm gonna take one of Boyd's legs as retribution."

“Stay out of the water as best you can,” Tim advises, knowing that to do so will inevitably slow their progress. 

“Leeches,” Raylan says. It’s half-agreement, half-warning. He’s seen this side of Florida, before. “Little fuckers go straight for the dick. Every time.” 

Tim’s eyebrows shoot up. “I was gonna go with, it’s rained recently, the water’s cold, hypothermia will set in, _we’ll die_ \--but a leech on my pecker? That’s surely fate worse than death.” 

Raylan makes a sound and stops in his marching after Tim. It serves him better than any comment might, because Tim turns to see what’s the hold-up. 

“Hypothermia,” Raylan repeats, doubtful. “It’s Florida. I doubt any local’s ever heard the word.”

“I trained up in Fort Benning,” Tim says, then turns and continues on with Raylan starting up after him. The water gets progressively deeper as they begin to lose sight of the road. “Used to be, they’d do exercises down here. Stopped all that when four would-be Rangers died in the swamps up around Eglin Air Force Base, north of here. Nineteen-ninety-something.” Tim pauses, then adds: “Well Nancy Drew, can you solve the case of the four dead soldiers?”

“Fine, fine. _Hypothermia._ Dipshit.” 

They don’t trudge through another dozen steps of sodden water before Tim stalls and asks, “Right to the dick, though?”

“It’s like they _know._ ”

\- 

Their jeans are soaked through, but the worst is over when they come upon Boyd in a clearing in the swamplands. It’s a secluded place inland, accessible by road better-so than the route Raylan and Tim took on foot. Boyd and his crew have their cars--including the one in need of towing--backed up against the treeline. Raylan and Tim stand deep inside the thick of curling trees. None stand straight; it’s as though the humid weather has weakened them and they’re all bent at the waist trying to collect themselves. 

It makes for good cover, and their clawing roots provide a sturdy place to stand above the dark waters. It proves to be aching work, but they each keep their footing atop the slick bases of trees. Tim's legs are spread wide to accommodate the added weight of the duffle. Raylan, being taller, finds himself a kind of natural window through the branches to view the goings-on among Boyd's people. 

It’s taken them nearly half an hour to cut through the swamp and arrive where Boyd’s been parked for about as long. Raylan isn’t sure if that bodes well for them or not. Boyd’s readying for a meeting, somewhere out of the way and previously determined, with a mess of cocaine strewn throughout three vehicles. 

That he’s _being made to wait,_ though, gives Raylan pause. It’s someone very important or someone very foolish--or both--that lets good product sit out and it’s seller, stand idle. Being made to wait gives a man time to think. 

Boyd could be standing there now, coming up with a bigger number.

“He gonna sell it all, you think?” Tim asks Raylan, because it’s Raylan who chances a better view.

“That’s still a crime,” Raylan whispers back. They both know Vasquez’s plan to take down an entire web of Kentucky dealers is lost as assuredly as if they drop it into the murky swamp waters themselves. 

All around them is layered greens and blacks, all shades, folding into one another. Plants simultaneously emerge from and disappear into the water. Their presence disturbs the surface, throws it into pools of varying depths and danger.

Raylan, at least, is confident they’re not about to stumble across any gators. The weather’s not right for it, nor the place. By in large, the waters are shallow and they’re in some kind of spiral of land Raylan figures people have set up plots on. Their presence undoubtedly disturbed nests and scared off anything worthwhile. 

But shallow, cold water doesn’t keep the worst types at bay. Raylan and Tim see lights chase up the road they’d abandoned a ways back. A line of three rusty-bellied trucks follows up the way Boyd came, each killing the motor in quick succession. It’s enough noise to startle more wildlife in the swamp. Creatures disappear into the water, others take flight. Tim and Raylan hold their positions. 

Raylan sees Vasquez's case shrink further, still. Trafficking with intent to sell--because sometimes it doesn't go without saying--is hardly small potatoes, but given the time, the resources, and the goddamn _hassle,_ the Kentucky office wants the whole farm. 

Raylan, who has the better view, gives Tim a quiet play-by-play. “Lot of ‘em. Half a dozen? Maybe--no, just four.”

Tim wants to ask their locations, but figures their continued talking might give them away faster than a quick peek on Tim’s part. He shifts behind the cover of trees he’s chosen and looks beyond them. Raylan’s right--there are four, all big, white like the Florida sun hasn’t deigned to touch them. Tim spies something else, too. 

“There’s a fifth behind the blue truck. Black guy.”

“Shit.”

“Shit, a black guy?”

“Shit, _Crowes,_ ” Raylan clarifies. “Daryl Crowe and his brothers. A whole litter of ‘em. They do business sometimes with a fella called the Haitian.” 

Tim looks like he means to ask if Raylan’s getting all this out of a TV guide from 1993--a movie review that really stuck with him, maybe. Or a very special _X-Files_ episode with just a twist of racial exploitation. But something else strikes him and he very nearly can't keep his voice down when he asks, "Crowes as in--Dewey Crowe?"

Raylan gives a nod. "The southern breed's a little tougher, admittedly. I’ve had dealings with their kind in the past.” 

“And?”

Raylan readies his firearm. 

"Well alright, then." Tim does the same. They fall silent. Behind them, the subtle tics of the swamp alight the coming evening. Insects and small amphibious creatures gurgle and bark to life. Ahead of them, a deal is done.

They can’t make out the words exchanged, but getting closer isn’t possible until the cloud cover shifts. Even then, the open clearing proves dangerous. 

"They got dogs," Raylan says, almost an afterthought. Gunfights, they could handle. Dogs seems like something worth mentioning for the shock value alone. "One of the brothers. Mastiffs, pits, trained to mess you up." 

Tim’s face screws up and he lets his head drop forward--hard--against the tree. "Fuck."

The display sparks Raylan’s curiosity. "You fine to shoot 'em, if need be?" Last he came across the Crowes, Raylan was working with a guy who just couldn't pull. Even in the hospital, when he was stitched up and being tested for rabies, the poor sap still insisted the creature looked too much like his childhood boxer, Polly. 

"I got no problem, there,” Tim says, although he looks like he’d rather nail his own skull through the entirety of a nearby tree trunk. 

They listen and wait. The two groups keep their distance, save for Boyd and Daryl, who meet in the middle of the clearing. Besides the jovial tones of Boyd’s chatter, they can’t decipher anything. Raylan informs Tim there are no guns out, no money changing hands. It's difficult for Raylan to imagine a business transaction of Boyd's going down without either. 

Suddenly, there's movement. Jimmy and Boyd's other begin emptying Boyd's vehicle of the product. As far as Raylan can tell, Boyd is _surrendering_ his cocaine. 

He is not paid. 

At least, neither Tim nor Raylan see any money cross hands. There’s only the bricks of cocaine being carried one by one into the Crowe’s vehicles. 

Raylan, who’s quick with his hands in more ways than one, relieves his smartphone from his shirt pocket and snaps a few pictures. He isn’t, however, fast enough in masking the flood of light from the phone's glossy face. It catches the eye of one of the Crowes, who halts production with a loud, _"The fuck was that!"_

Tim and Raylan ready their sidearms. The only look they share is one of preparedness, not blame. This party was going to be broken up one way or another. Perhaps they’ll catch a break, and the disturbance will lure a number of them away.

The opportunity flies clear over their heads, unfortunately, as Boyd’s is the only voice to ring out and command the hoards. He tells Jimmy to check that they're clear. Jimmy, of course, finds Tim. 

He stumbles upon them and has the wherewithal to bite his tongue and continue past them. He splashes along in the marsh for a time before circling back.

Jimmy desperately wants to say _I had no idea,_ but hopes Tim knows that. Instead, he whispers, "Boyd's armed. Two glocks on 'em and a rife in his truck." 

"What is this," Tim hisses, but Jimmy's already turned away. 

"All clear!" he calls out. After half a breath--and in it, the barest moment of steely bravery--Jimmy drops back half a step and says, _“We’re giving it away.”_

Tim watches as Jimmy starts toward Boyd again. Raylan can’t. He barges out of hiding, takes up Jimmy by the slack of his jacket and puts his sidearm to the kid’s head.

Raylan thinks Jimmy must believe it’s Tim’s grip on him, to start, because he doesn’t immediately try and wrestle free. 

_“Asshole,”_ Jimmy snaps when he realizes otherwise. “The fuck are you doing?”

Jimmy cranes his head around, looking for Tim--looking for _reason_ \--but Raylan is quick to usher him forward. 

“What is it about a gun to your head that makes you think I’m playing?”

Jimmy sighs. “...Boyd!” 

It sounds like code, the way he says it. Slow, drawn-out, defeated. Raylan gets a little kick out of that; he figures they’ve faced enough foiled plans to get the tone down right. 

Boyd Crowder turns. He’s bright-eyed and grinning as he throws open his arms. It’s a gesture meant to suggest he’s unarmed, but Raylan can see the awkward way his blazer--who wears a goddamn blazer to a drug deal?--hangs heavy to the left. 

“Raylan Givens!” He speaks like his prayers have been answered. “You are my salvation.”

"Boyd Crowder, shut your goddamn mouth." Raylan prefers the bank robber-turned-mafia tool aesthetic over Boyd’s hillbilly saviour routine. The former is less a strain to believe. Raylan loosens his hold on Jimmy and discards him. He’s the center of attention, but as of yet no one’s looking at him down the barrel of a gun. That, and Tim’s fanned out to one side, and has his piece leveled at whoever so much as sneezes in Raylan’s direction. 

"It's Daryl, right? Daryl Crowe?" Raylan addresses the biggest of Boyd’s new company. He’s got a mean look like a cat that’s lost one too many fights. Maybe he’s all the smarter for it, because he doesn’t confirm his identity to Raylan.

Raylan continues, "Getting into bed with this shithouse rat is bad news, Daryl. Whatever he's selling, you best think twice before buying."

"We weren't buying nothin'," one of the Crowes--Danny, judging by ugly pit bull he’s got snarling at his side--says.

Tim wants to ask what _the fuck_ Raylan thinks he’s doing, but soon comes to figure the obvious: the operation has gone to shit. Raylan sees that, and is only now playing for time before the locals arrive. The best they can do is arrest the lot, and keep the cocaine in Boyd’s possession. 

Boyd, seeing this end for himself, opens his mouth. Even with a gun pointed at him--Raylan’s--he’s still prepared to use his deadliest weapon. 

Still bright, he addresses the Crowes like he’s introducing two sets of friends at a party. He’s gentle, but excited. This could go very well or, as planned, _very bad._

"These two here is U.S. Marshals from up my neck, nothing of theirs here..."

"Marshals?!" The round, short Crowe shouts. Raylan can’t place him by name; he doesn’t seem like much of a player. He's got a wild look in his eye, like someone just woke him from sleep, screamed _FIRE!_ in his ear just to see him scramble. 

“Sure, now!” Boyd cracks, coming to life. “The tall one there is Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens, and the small one--oh, he won’t take kindly to that--is Deputy U.S. Marshal Gutterson.”

Reiterating their titles sends the Crowe--Dilly--into a fit. 

"I ain't going back to prison!” Dilly shouts at anyone who will listen. “I ain't done shit!"

“Hey!” Tim snaps, loud to cover Dilly’s proclamations of unbound innocence. Unexpectedly, Tim’s got his firearm leveled not at Boyd, but at Danny Crowe. He’s noticed the slow relief Danny’s given the leash on his pitbull. 

“You call ‘em off,” Tim orders. “Call ‘em off or I’ll put ‘em down at your feet.” 

The dog has a face the color of varnished steel. The rest of him fades to a pewter gray, and in the dark he looks downright ghostly. 

Danny spits a string of brown, well-chewed dip to the wet earth, narrowly missing his own dog’s head. 

“You ain’t gonna shoot my dog,” he says, a threat.

“At this range I’ll shoot clean through him,” Tim returns. A promise.

Tim doesn’t like to repeat himself, but he does it twice more until the dog is locked away in one of the pick-up’s cabs. Beyond it, Tim can see the Haitian standing watch. He’s tall and wiry, and seems undisturbed by this turn of events. He’s a little too cool, and Tim’s about to call to him, get a proper headcount of all the lowlives they’re about to shuttle off to prison. But Raylan’s sudden shouting-- _“Son, that’d better be your dick you’re tugging at”_ \--steals away Tim’s attention just in time for him to see everything go sideways.

Dilly wrestles a pistol from the front of his trousers and fires at Tim and Raylan, hitting nothing but the space between them, then some trees beyond. It produces a spray of splinters, not blood, but neither Deputy can let it stand. Raylan returns fire, wings Dilly, and the whole mess of them--Harlan boys and Florida Crowes alike--take up arms. 

Tim sees the Haitian duck away into the swamp and bid a hasty escape. Because he isn’t among the hordes suddenly mishandling a weapon, Tim lets him go. Another shot in the dark, he knows, will only serve to rile tensions more.

Among the weapons raised, most are pointed in Raylan’s direction. Raylan’s, however, has swung towards Boyd, where it is not met. Boyd, of all things, has his hands neatly raised in mock-surrender. It’s just the thing to aggravate Raylan further, isolate and hold his attention. 

Boyd’s placed his bets thusly: either a jumpy Crowe will take Raylan out, or Boyd will see to it himself when the dust clears and Raylan’s out of ammo, himself. 

Dilly’s screaming about the bullet in his arm, but all Tim hears is that little voice in his head that tells him this mission is FUBAR and it’s because Raylan will _never_ be able to end Boyd Crowder. It happened once before: he pulled on the guy and fired a bullet. It missed the heart and gave Boyd new life. 

The cloud cover Tim wanted half an hour ago is finally moving in. The darkness makes the crisscross of headlights glow brighter and through it, Tim sees an unlikely hope.

Jimmy steps into the fray, swinging right and taking aim at Dilly Crowe. He says to the brothers, “ _Shut the fuck up._ It’s one of yours or all of us. You kill a U.S. Marshal and we’re all fucked.” 

Dilly starts to say, “Fuck you, little man!” but sways on his feet, drunk and wild on fear, and willing to pursue only one course of action. 

So, Tim sees, is his brother. The oldest Crowe is slowly taking up his pistol in Dilly's direction.

Dilly cocks back the hammer and sets his sights on Raylan, who won’t now abandon his aim on Boyd. This transpires in an eternity of milliseconds. Tim sets up his own shot, but Jimmy beats him to it.

They go off like missiles in the dark. Four shots all together in quick succession, screaming until they silence themselves in their intended target, Dilly Crowe.

Jimmy isn’t a very good shot, but at this distance he doesn’t need to be. Dilly drops his weapon, falls to his knees, and writhes on the ground. He screams in gasps, hugs the hole in his torso and pleads for mercy. Neither Tim nor Raylan can be the one to deliver it. 

Danny is screaming for someone to help his brother. His dog is barking madly in the car, wetting the window with his drool and hot breath. Daryl doesn't seem to care; his small eyes flit over the scene of his botched exchange. 

Tim passes his sidearm off to Raylan--but keeps his rifle close--and let's Raylan cover him as he breaches the imaginary line dividing their three sides. He gets on his knees and stays the bleeding to the stomach wound. Dilly is already quiet now, in shock. Tim knows it’s useless, but thinks it'll read better that they tried. His hands sink deep into the warm, cavernous hole. It’s strangely familiar, but Tim doesn’t experience any flashbacks. His head is too full and his heart just isn’t in it.

Tim knows the first step is to stabilize Dilly's breathing, but this is already a lost cause. Getting his hands dirty now is done for little more than show. He thinks he hears himself tell Dilly it’ll be okay, which isn’t the worst lie he’s ever told, but hell if it isn’t in the top five.

In just a few minutes, Dilly Crowe bleeds out. His screams are replaced by wailing sirens and the dull roar of approaching police vehicles. Tim rises and wipes his wet, warmed-over hands on his jeans, then looks up and sees Jimmy. 

His face is stricken, his cheeks not yet tearstained, but give it time.

Raylan arrests--everybody. He gets the stolen zip ties from Tim’s duffle, handcuffs the lot and readies an explanation for the arriving locals. He intends to use every connection he’s got in Florida to assure that he and Tim drive away with Boyd’s crew in custody. 

Fuck the trigger-happy Crowes. They can drown in this swamp for all Raylan cares.

Tim watches as Raylan manhandles Boyd, talks shit to him with a kind of proud lightness that doesn’t account for the man lying dead a few yards away. 

Tim should have known from the start that this entire enterprise was doomed. There’s nothing in particular that Raylan does to sabotage himself; it’s the universe. It’s god or it’s chance, but Raylan will never best Boyd Crowder. At least, not in the way Tim would like. There's no finality to their meetings, only persistent give-and-take. Tim knows now there needs to be a tipping of the scales. 

Immediately, Tim begins thinking through their dwindling options: arresting Boyd for the kidnapping, arresting him for transporting drugs into the country. But he can already imagine whatever hairbrained lawyer Boyd gets ahold of. Boyd will whisper into his ear, amplify his honeyed words to play out in the courtroom. His excuses, his denials, his belief that his rights were infringed upon by a Marshal Service that had nothing better to do than tail him on an innocent cross country adventure. Tim can picture the pair creating a mess the Marshals can't dig themselves out of. 

Hell, Tim can muster Boyd’s case well enough himself. Why didn’t the Deputies arrest Boyd on the kidnapping charge when they first found him, as were their written orders? Why did they pursue Boyd into Mexico rather than contacting Interpol? And did they not, in failing to act, actually aid in the transport of illegal substances? And now a man is dead. Who was to blame for that, really, if not the federal officers watching it all go down--hell, ensuring that it did?

Fuck. As best as Tim recalls, Boyd never did acquire payment. He isn’t stupid enough to argue he was robbed, but he can build a case for his defense. The cartel, the Crowes, these people threatened him, blackmailed him into engaging in illegal acts. He did this to save the life of his fiance in prison. 

Right before his eyes in the sweating, stinking swamps of Florida, Tim watches the case fall apart. 

Tim hears Raylan ignoring the locals and speaking on the phone with Chief Deputy Dan Grant again. It’s his cue to stop standing dazed and bloodied over a cooling body and start participating. But by the time he’s wiped his hands down the fronts of his jeans again--stopping when he gets to the part that’s still cold and damp with swamp water--Raylan has already secured Boyd’s convoy as their own. Rather than leave it for the Florida office, Raylan makes a few more calls and organizes a sizeable vehicle to haul the cars--cocaine and all--back to Kentucky. Boyd cracks that Raylan is doing his job for him, and _ain’t that neighborly._ Raylan wants to sock him in the face, but settles for the gut. 

Raylan has more pull in Florida than Tim expects, because they’re set to leave just after midnight. Raylan plans to drive ahead of the convoy, Tim behind. Boyd gleefully takes up with Raylan, crowing that it’s a long way yet back to Kentucky, and won’t it be nice to catch up? Tim is left with both Jimmy and Desmond, Boyd’s third. 

“Don’t talk to me,” Tim says while Jimmy surrenders his hands to be zip-tied like the rest. It’s embarrassing that Tim has to do it some hours after the initial bust, but one look at Raylan tells him Raylan didn’t see the point in keeping up appearances. 

Be that as it may, Tim falls back on instinct. He doesn’t even do Jimmy the service of binding him in front, and by the look on Jimmy’s face, it’s not unexpected. The case is shot to shit, in large part by Jimmy himself. 

“I’m sorry,” Jimmy mutters. His fingers grapple for Tim's in a kind of hapless handholding. Tim all but shoves him away. 

“Break my rule again, you’re sitting in back.” 

“Please--”

“Get in back.”

It’s another twelve hours to Lexington. Tim makes the drive without one more word from Jimmy.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This goes so much faster when I'm unemployed. Y...ay?

Raylan parks first, closes his door and leaves Boyd zip-tied in the front passenger seat, windows up, like you wouldn’t do to a dog. It’s just past noon and there’s nothing Raylan needs more than a piss and a coffee, but today, Tim takes precedence. 

He pulls Tim aside. There’s an understated urgency to his movements, and one wouldn’t know it just by looking at him. His brow is smooth and his swagger is easy, but his eyes are dark and there’s anger there. 

“He’s gunning for you,” Raylan says lowly. He and Tim stand with their backs against the Jeep. “Intimated to me what I already know, and," when Raylan ducks his head, Tim knows immediately that Boyd’s been mouthy about Tim's unplanned rendezvous in Harlan. Raylan, at least, looks like he doesn't want to believe it. 

The girl, Tim thinks.

“I don’t know what he’s got on you--”

“Other than the truth,” Tim drawls.

“--Other than his word,” Raylan corrects. “And that’s bullshit, and everyone knows it.” 

Raylan’s quiet for a moment. Both he and Tim know the weapon Boyd has isn’t necessarily _what_ he knows, it’s how loud and how often he plans to say it. If that’s Tim’s sexuality or the bravado that prefaced a young girl’s death--well, Raylan isn’t sure which would be worse in the great state of Kentucky. “It ain’t gonna come down to lock him up or shut him up. We can do both.” 

“I’m not gonna tell you which I’d rather,” Tim says, then scrubs his tired face. “Fuck it.” 

He sounds determined. He loudly pounds on the window, stirring Boyd's men awake--including Jimmy, sat uncomfortably and without legroom in back.

Still, Raylan notices that of all those ushering into the courthouse--officers carrying stacks of cocaine, Boyd and his people--Tim is dead last. His dallying serves him well enough. He doesn’t have to see Jimmy’s searching expression as he’s carted off into a holding area.

The office is hectic enough with regular business at this hour, but Raylan and Tim bring in a whole new energy. 

Cocaine will do that.

While Raylan takes the lead on briefing the office, Tim busies himself preparing the latest GPS data. It's something he could do in three minutes, but stretches it out to ten to avoid much of a speaking role. Raylan's had enough experience making a shitstorm sound like a pleasant summer day, and Tim wisely leaves the task to the professional. 

Art, satisfied with the briefing--if concerned for the luxurious stay in Mexico--doesn't recognize Tim's reticence to speak. He orders Tim to go to check on his CI, ensure that he's still on board to inform on Boyd. 

"Sweat him, if need be." Art's taking the news of Boyd's botched exchange better than expected. Tim supposes it makes enough sense that it would be him and Raylan--the ones who put in the time, logged the hours, drove clear across the country and back--to feel the brunt of this fuck-up. He's still too wound up on Raylan's relaying of Boyd's threat to give a shit that his boss is, at least, hopeful with what they've accomplished. 

Tim makes a stop at the break room fridge. After him, Art calls, "Put the screws to him!" 

"Ha," Tim hears Raylan say from behind. 

"Eighth graders," Tim mutters to himself.

Before the holding area, Tim cuts to the right and detours into the locker room, where he trades his now four-day-old wears for a clean dress shirt and jeans. There's nothing to be done about his shoes, which have dried but are surely irreparably scented with Florida stink. Then again, there was once a time Tim thought he'd never get the blood off them.

Another Deputy steps into the room just as Tim scoops the jeans up over his ass. It's nothing anyone hasn't seen of one another in this small office, but Tim gets a comment anyway.

"Thank Christ, Gutterson. You gonna incinerate those, right?" 

“Thought I’d put ‘em in the break room fridge, keep ‘em fresh for ya.”

Raylan, in particular, could always be counted on for something of a peepshow. That man just couldn't keep his shirt buttoned--like his entire wardrobe was made of Teflon. 

The denim of Tim’s old jeans is stiff, having soaked up Dilly’s Crowe’s blood. Tim didn’t think to check, but he bets his thighs are stained a dull pink as a result. It’s nothing he can contend with until this case is over, however, so he doesn’t give it a second thought.

Tim balls up the hoodie and stuffs it in a plastic bag from Kroger’s. The bag smells like peanut butter and the hoodie, like a swamp. Tim's still fitting the ends of his shirt into his pants when he enters the holding area. It's a force of habit, but Tim likes the effect anyway. He almost looks put together. 

Boyd’s being kept elsewhere--under supervision, per Raylan’s orders--but his people are here, sat on opposite sides of the room. 

"Hey," Tim says, ducking into the room and speaking with his back to Boyd’s other. He closes the door behind him.

Jimmy, who is rightly pissed off, snarks, "Oh, are you talking to me again?" 

"Before your lawyer does, yeah," Tim answers rather than telling Jimmy he's got orders from on high. He folds his arms across his chest, relaxes a little despite the unwanted company. That said, he doesn't look too concerned with the roundabout conversation his colleague is sharing with a goddamn Deputy U.S. Marshal.

Tim sways a little, back-and-forth. Both his badge and his gun protrude from his belt, which is about at eye-level with Jimmy. “Y’alright?”

Jimmy doesn’t watch him for any longer than he should.

“He knows,” Jimmy says, his words infused with such gravity that Tim understands completely what he means. _You and me. All of it._

“You told him?” Tim asks, because even he is not above clinging to hope. He doesn’t think Jimmy and Boyd have shared so much as a passing glance since the showdown in Florida. Maybe, that’s all it took.

“He knows,” Jimmy says again, and drops his head into his hands. The plastic zip tie is gone, exchanged for silver cuffs locked in front. Tim wants to say that’s an improvement, but doesn’t think Jimmy will appreciate the nuance. 

Jimmy doesn’t know how Boyd knows, but he does. What’s more, Jimmy’s certain Boyd will get his hands on the cocaine--and, if not, at least money and favors--and wherever that leaves him it sure as shit isn’t _partner,_ like they’d planned. He says literally none of this, but Tim gets his meaning.

“You’re alright,” Tim says, answering his own question from before. He hands Jimmy a can of soda and bag of chips he retrieved from the break room. 

Desmond, Boyd's other lackey, perks up and demands, “Hey! What about me?”

“Who even _are you._ ” Tim could swear it--he doesn't recognize this bucktoothed no-name every time he sees him. 

Jimmy passes his snacks to Des. “I ain’t hungry.” 

Tim draws in a breath and lets it out through his nose. He feels more tired now than he has in a good, long time. It’s almost pleasant--the warm feeling rolling through him. Tim thinks if he were to close his eyes right now, he’d fall asleep standing up. 

And he must already be dreaming, because he thinks in Jimmy’s company, some shared reprieve would be welcome.

"This is the hard part," Tim tells him quietly. 

He’s had time to think about his own place in the outcome of this bust. Somewhere along the I-75--just outside Atlanta, if memory serves--he began to consider that, maybe, all his angling and positioning of promise and prize could have been done without. He should have capitalized on Jimmy's fear, not his hope. And maybe Tim wouldn't feel as damned helpless himself, knowing their case rests with Jimmy’s testimony, yet presently, there's nothing concrete for Jimmy in return.

“Alright." Tim chances a hand on Jimmy's shoulder. It’s pitched forward, perhaps overly-so to compensate for being reared back during the drive from Florida. Tim feels a little sorry for that, but there’s no changing it now. Out the small window into the rest of the office, Tim can see that Boyd’s lawyer has arrived.

“Anyone comes in to talk with you,” Tim starts again, “Don’t say anything. You can listen, but don’t commit. Okay?” 

Jimmy rolls his eyes. “Is that, like, a metaphor?”

Tim stares at Jimmy, disbelieving. “Dude, _you_ slept for twelve hours just now. I didn’t. Think I’ve got the mental capacity for metaphors? Just shut the fuck up and wait for my word, okay?”

“Hey--” Des starts through a mouthful of chips, “We got rights!” 

“Tell it to your public defender,” Tim snaps, and leaves the room. 

\- 

It’s difficult to believe that after everything--bared souls, hurricanes, dusty Mexico brawls, Florida showdowns--what the case comes down to is a conversation had over a conference room table, through a spread of coffees and stale Danishes. 

Still, it's the most anxious either Tim or Raylan have felt in the past few weeks. 

It has all the intensity of a slow apocalypse, the televised mudslide of ruined lives. Raylan catches Tim’s gaze from across the table, and rolls his eyes. It's Art who's speaking presently, but Raylan's gesture is for nothing specific. He means it for the entire production--the way Boyd's lawyer counters Art's points with a weighty reverence, yet says so little of substance. Or the fact that, given what they’ve seen, Boyd isn’t already buttoned to the throat in an orange jumpsuit.

Tim listens absently and finds Boyd's lawyer is working an illegal wiretapping angle.

"It was on Jimmy's car," Tim interrupts. "When the actual crime took place." Tim shoots Boyd a smart look and adds, "Try again."

"Excuse me," the lawyer starts, and Tim cuts her off again. She's offset her sharp features with a dull suit. Beige on beige, every corner rounded, every edge softened. She wears the thing like a pillowcase, and yet her eyes are razor sharp. Tim thinks she's the _banality of evil_ incarnate. 

"Moving the tracking device," Tim says slowly, and for the benefit of all involved parties, "From Boyd's car to his own. That was Jimmy's play."

Boyd almost smiles at that. His lawyer says stiffly, "I don't represent Mr. Tolan." 

"Makes sense," Raylan drawls. "He's going to put your client in prison for the rest of his life. Something of a conflict of interest there, if'n I'm not mistaken."

“Speaking of conflicts of interest--” Boyd begins, but his lawyer interjects sharply, and reminds him what happened the last time he thought to stage his own defense. Reluctantly, Boyd quiets. There’s a glee on his face that won’t be smothered, and it garners the attention of all those gathered.

He'll say what he means to. Tim knows that's only a matter of time. 

Boyd’s lawyer says something about reconvening with her client in private. Tim’s back to not listening. They leave the conference room and then the office, picking up a Deputy escort along the way.

Tim finds a lull in the conversation and starts in: "About the shooting. Dilly Crowe had already fired shots at us. Raylan was occupied with Boyd. I wasn't in position--"

"One thing at a time," Art interrupts. "That's more Florida's concern than ours." 

The way in which Tim leans back in his seat is stiff and awkward, not at all relaxed. The tone he adopts doesn’t do him any favors, either; he sounds wired. "Jimmy's ours, though."

Tim gets the same slow, heavy feeling he had watching Boyd’s empty-handed trade in Florida as Art’s face twists thoughtfully. His words follow suit to his expression, and Art mentions dropping Jimmy, going the smoothest route with the original warrant. 

_“I mean, he just told you what you already knew.”_

Tim isn’t sure if he’s hearing Art, or reading his lips. For a few grating seconds, nothing seems to register. Save for the sudden burning in his chest, Tim is without stimulus. 

Art looks to Vasquez for confirmation. "To streamline things," he starts, then waves a hand like he means to stir votes. "A rogue CI is excessive."

“Well--” Vasquez starts, but Tim cuts in, having finally found his voice.

"We lose Jimmy we lose the cocaine."

"We may have already lost it," Art sighs. Boyd’s lawyer may be on to something with the tracking device, and the delay in executing an arrest. At the very least, it reflects poorly on their office--and it’s already taken enough hits from Raylan’s shenanigans, alone.

Tim gets it. Art's nearing retirement, is on his way out. He wants whatever will ensure him a win--even if it is total chickenshit. That the kidnapping and assault are back on the table is something Tim knows he'll have to square himself with, no matter the bigger picture. But cutting Jimmy loose isn't acceptable. 

Raylan starts to intervene, beginning with the instance the tracker was lost, but Tim interjects with the answer he knows will get him heard.

"We can't drop him," Tim says matter-of-fact, "because I slept with him. And that'd be rude."

He continues, husky and low, like he doesn't even want to be heard, “And either we help him, or he'll ruin my career and destroy this case.”

Tim tells himself it’s better this way. He’s said it, so that when Boyd gets his turn it will be old news. But Boyd Crowder’s threats are hanging high in anyone else’s mind. At this table--to this audience--it looks as though Tim has thoughtlessly dropped a hot shit on a china plate. Half the room shares the same expression: _Where did this come from? And **why.**_

Tim doesn't look at anyone in particular; he keeps his gaze raised, indiscriminate of any target. That is, until Raylan finds, holds him long enough to give a single nod--a quiet compliment for taking the necessary step out of line. It's the tiniest crack in the floodgates, and suddenly Tim finds his focus wavering recklessly. He next sees Rachel, the person he trusts most in this very room, if not the entire state. She looks rightly scorned, having been lied to, but her expression soon softens. She knows what's at stake for Tim to admit to this, least of all being his pride. 

Art’s cracking a bewildered grin. “Bullshit,” he says. His face is drawn in confusion and unease, but only from his brow through his eyes. His mouth is still cocked in a half-smile, like he’s waiting for Tim to deliver the punchline and for the laughs to ensue.

Tim smiles a little grimly in turn; he finds no humor here, beyond the absurd. His teeth show as he bites out, feeling all the more foolish by each passing second, “No, boss, it ain’t. It’s what I did. So we gotta work with that.”

It’s as definitive as Tim thinks he can be, short of drawing a crude diagram. 

“Since when are you _gay?_ ” 

Tim starts to count on his fingers, then gives up after four. “Like, this whole time.” 

Tim wets his lips, surveys the scene, and hopes that’s the end. “So--”

“Jesus, Tim.”

Art’s expression still professes doubt, and Tim means to smother it. 

“I am. And I did. With him.” There is a confidence now infused with Tim’s pronouncements. He has decided to speak, so he will not whisper. He will no longer straddle truth with security--at least, not his own. To demonstrate Jimmy's worth, Tim reaches for his phone, says to Art, "Look, he sent me a pic--” 

“Of _what?_ ” Art interrupts. 

“ _Of all the cocaine in Boyd’s truck._ If you want dick pics, keep scrolling.” Tim passes off the phone, making sure Art gets a genuine look at what Jimmy has accomplished for them. “Cocaine, in Boyd’s vehicle, _prior_ to him hauling it over the border with a tow truck. We wouldn’t have shit if it weren’t for him acting on our behalf every step of the way. And he did that, unprompted.” 

Tim tells himself a lot of things, in large part to keep himself safe. It only started with the sniper stories. The terms and conditions with Jack--and any previous closeted relationship--were stories in and of themselves. He sees now, with Jimmy in a holding room and his fate tied up in Tim's courage, that the stories have gotten away from him. 

But this-- _this,_ he believes. Jimmy’s as necessary as anyone in this room. Tim wills that onto his face, into his movements--his _breathing_ \--and any other means he can outside of repeating it on a loop until his colleagues see reason. 

“He tried to call us, too,” Raylan remembers. He keeps his tone level for Art’s benefit, but scans the room like he would an audience. “When Boyd was making the actual deal. Lost the call, but we heard Boyd. And GPS will put him in cartel territory at the time of the call. Juries eat that shit up.”

It’s a valiant effort, but Art’s still stalled on what came before. Tim’s admission has rooted itself in the room and Art can’t figure a way around it. 

“I think we need Mr. Tolan in here,” Vasquez pipes up. It’s the first thing he’s said since Tim interrupted him.

“Really?” Art asks, disbelief coloring his tone, stretching it high.

Vasquez nods once, his expression open and sure. “Myself, Mr. Tolan, and Deputy Gutterson, yes. This is a legal matter and I need to get my bearings.” 

Art mutters something about them using his office, instead, and no one argues the point. Tim doesn’t expect it, but if Jimmy does something untoward at least it’s not done in a verifiable glass case. 

“Blinds open,” Art snarks, then departs the room. 

Tim rolls his eyes; he can’t say what he did sured up Jimmy’s allegiance, even if he believes that to be precisely the case. It wouldn’t help him now. He pushes away from the long table, and offers an abrupt “sorry” to his colleagues, for the awkward display if nothing else. Tim thinks Raylan might want to get a line in-- _for what? Getting Art off my case for the foreseeable future?_ \--so he hightails it out of the conference room.

He waits in Art’s office for Vasquez to join him, hoping to get some legal council on the sly. 

"So," Tim starts while folding his arms across his chest, "How profoundly did I fuck us?"

"Sizably so," Vasquez allows. He's less upset with Tim than Art clearly is, and for good reason: Vasquez doesn't feel lied to, necessarily. And through this office in particular, he's at least had some practice in building a case despite conflicts of a… romantic nature, for lack of a better term.

“It certainly is… a complication.” He glances at Tim and offers diplomatically: “A wrinkle.”

Even Tim knows that’s a mountain of an understatement. “Yeah, no shit. So bookmark my file for the feds, or whatever it is that bumps me up to the Raylan Givens standard, and help me not get this kid killed.”

Vasquez pinches the bridge of his nose; this is not the plan he and Tim devised. _That_ plan was a thing of beauty--a little rough around the edges, but structurally sound. Tim’s revelation shook the matter to its core, and Vasquez knows he can’t chance any more surprises. He gestures for Tim to take a seat, and isn't surprised when the Deputy does no such thing. “Did you ply him in any way? Sexual favors for information?”

“Is that bad?” Tim asks, playing dumb even though he knows better. These questions--and the degree of delicacy Vasquez applies to their asking--are bullshit. “I mean--no? Not explicitly? But sure, I wanted him to trust me, trust talking to me.”

Despite his best efforts, Tim hears himself mumble and drag his words like heavy sandbags through the conversation. 

“So you… had sex with him.” Vasquez doesn't share his problem; his tone is light but sharp, a pinprick--harmless, unless his words come loaded. It’s some kind of favor, getting Tim used to these explicit questions, even if it feels like anything but. 

"Just a blowjob," Tim clarifies. Vasquez can't tell if he's being facetious or not. "And like Raylan always says, what's a blowjob between friends?"

Tim doesn’t know it, but Vasquez is wearing the same expression he did when his three-year-old dropped her first f-bomb. "Jesus Christ, it's this entire office.”

“It mattered to him.” Tim says, and while Vasquez is trying to decipher what _that_ means, exactly, Tim spills forth with any--and all--reasoning he can possibly apply to his case: “Jimmy was only helping because he liked me. He never doubted Boyd. Not for a second.”

Because life is funny sometimes, Art chooses this precise moment to appear at his open office door and present Jimmy like a consolation prize. 

Jimmy looks sorry, ashamed. But only for a second. He steels himself, says without a hint of the hurt that stems from Tim speaking about their relations so easily, and streamlining Jimmy's own motives into something uncomplicated and simple: “I never doubted you, neither.” 

His blue eyes travel to Vasquez and Art, these men he doesn't know or respect, but who suddenly hold his life in their hands. “But I was on _my_ side. I didn’t think you’d bring me over to yours.” 

"That's the wrong thing to say," Tim tells Jimmy emphatically. It's all he can do not to get right in the kid's face, but Tim figures Art would take a gesture like that the wrong way. 

Without a comment on the matter. Art closes the door, leaving Vasquez in the company he wanted. There’s a harried kind of silence in the room as both Tim and Vasquez await Jimmy’s response, and Jimmy decides whether or not to let them have it. He decides not, and takes a seat on the couch like he belongs there. Admittedly, even Tim feels anxious. He hadn’t given this ordeal much thought--he figured the bust would be enough to keep them all occupied, and if things went well enough Jimmy would be rewarded without question.

But things have gone to shit, and Jimmy’s got a handful of nothing. 

Tim looks between Vasquez and Jimmy. Vasquez isn’t the most intimidating of people, but he’s dressed slick and sharp and has a tongue to match. Tim sits himself against the edge of Art’s desk, effectively giving Vasquez the floor. 

Vasquez introduces himself to Jimmy, even thanks him for his time. That’s a laugh--Jimmy was brought into the office in cuffs, same as Boyd. No one’s passing around polite thank-yous to Crowder.

“This is just a formality,” Vasquez assures him, and then--without warning--cuts to the chase. “Can you describe for me the nature of your partnership with Deputy Gutterson?”

Jimmy, like he’s been known to say, isn’t stupid. He knows there’s anger in the room, born of broken rules and uncertainty, but he doesn’t allow himself to jump to conclusions. At the very least, he won’t make anyone’s case for them. 

“I’m his--what’s it called? Confidential Informant.” 

“On the matter of Boyd Crowder,” Vasquez supplies. “And his latest… economic pursuit.” 

Jimmy frowns, not following. “No, on the cocaine he got from Mexico.”

“Ah,” Vasquez even chances a smile. “My mistake.” 

Vasquez picks up a pad of paper from his briefcase and lets his eyes scan over it. Tim doesn’t know what’s on the paper, but it’s likelier a grocery list than intel on their case. Vasquez is putting on a show. 

“You accompanied Boyd Crowder on his trip to Mexico, is that correct? Aided in the purchase of illicit materials--”

“I helped stack the coke in the trunk of his car, if that’s what you mean.”

“--and you reported to Deputy Gutterson on these actions as often as possible.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all?" Vasquez asks, his tone digging deeper now.

Jimmy shrugs. “That’s all.”

"Is that all," Vasquez asks a little clearer. 

"Are you deaf or something? That's all."

Vasquez turns and gives Tim a look as if to say, _Well, at least he’s a good liar._

He is good, Tim realizes. Some small part of him wishes now he had the forethought to have done the same.

Vasquez returns his attention to the pad of paper, then thumbs through a few pages, his expression pinched and contemplative. "Why did you agree to act against your employer, Boyd Crowder, and aid the U.S. Marshal Service in pursuit of his arrest?"

Finally, with the advent of a genuine question, Jimmy falters. He even looks a little ashamed to speak his mind. "He's... Boyd... Is losing it. Doing stupid things, dangerous things. Kidnapping a U.S. Marshal ain't smart. I felt bad about that." 

The explanation is too wordy, too thought-out, that eventually it gets away from Jimmy. Haplessly, he admits, "I got scared." 

Tim realizes he hasn't really asked Jimmy this, himself. He’s caught off guard, then, to hear Jimmy’s quiet conclusion: "Deputy Gutterson didn't look scared." 

They talk a short while longer. It’s mostly Vasquez feeding Jimmy answers in the form of questions, and Jimmy agreeing, but Tim hardly hears a word of it. It’s like he’s underwater, and every word spoken is warped by the time it reaches his ears.

When Vasquez pauses, steps out of the room to take a phone call from his office, Tim acts faster than he can think better to. Appearances damned, Tim pushes off of Art’s desk and joins Jimmy on the couch.

“Just listen, alright?” 

Jimmy's surprised enough by Tim's company, let alone him actually sparing a gentle word. But Tim's weight on the couch is welcome, and Jimmy sits up a little straighter, more attentive.

“I _am_ working to keep you out ahead of Boyd, and on our side. You do belong here.” Tim presses his lips closed. He feels like he had more to say--more he _should_ say--but there's suddenly nothing else he can spare. Tim rests a tentative hand on Jimmy's shoulder, and thinks this is what was missing. The warmed-over look on Jimmy’s face suggests there is nothing left wanting. 

“I trust you.” Without the boorish tones he put on for Vasquez’s benefit, Jimmy sounds small, saying so. 

Tim’s still sat on the couch when Vasquez returns to resume his dialogue with Jimmy. He doesn’t move, and Vasquez doesn’t comment on the arrangement. 

"The good news," Vasquez starts to tell Tim after another Deputy arrives to collect Jimmy and return him to lock-up, "Is that I am a master craftsman, and have been known to shape shit like this into Michelangelo’s _David_."

“Super,” Tim drawls. Slowly, he is drawn out of his funk. "What's the bad news?"

Vasquez smirks. "Isn't it obvious? He's smitten with you." 

"Jesus Christ," Tim spits, angry now that Vasquez is making jokes. "I'm glad you're having fun. Real glad."

“I mean, who can blame him?” Vasquez is grinning wide, pleased with himself. “You smell like a tropical vacation. Or a tropical disease. I get them confused.”

Tim’s all dead-eyes and furrowed-brow, and serves each up generously. "Can I take from your inexplicably joking mood that this case isn't completely fucked?"

"Shit, no," Vasquez scoffs. "Unless Boyd plans to produce phone records and evidence of the Crowes forcing this plan down his throat--and not the other way around--we've got plenty. Bringing it over the border, that's key." After a moment, Vasquez adds: "Jimmy, too. Never met an eyewitness I didn't like."

Tim nods, relieved even if his face doesn't show it. Art's office feels infinitely more spacious without Jimmy and all his baggage. Tim only feels slightly ashamed for enjoying his absence. 

"We gonna sit on Boyd?"

"For as long as we can."

"Is my... The complaint..."

"Bottom of the deck, but it's worth keeping." Vasquez finally looks up from his phone and gives Tim a smart look that spares Tim from explaining himself any further. "I'm not going to hang my hat on it, Deputy. Last time I did that, Raylan Givens all but escorted Dickie Bennett out of prison."

“Comparing me to Raylan,” Tim gives a rueful shake of his head. “I'm gonna let that slide just this once.”

Vasquez’s sharp smile is the kind of thing Tim expects gets thrown around court rooms a lot. “Well, you've given me plenty to work with.”

The smile only widens when Boyd’s lawyer enters the office, looking harried. 

“Where have you holed away my client?”

The smile falters. “Excuse me?”

“I have less need of your apologies than I do of my client,” the lawyer snaps. “If you won’t produce him I will _personally_ have Judge Reardon alerted and--”

Slowly, Vasquez speaks through his confusion. “Mrs. Landrum, I haven’t seen your client since you convened with him in private--thirty minutes ago?”

“Forty-three,” Tim corrects, his gaze carrying past the two individuals in his company, and out towards the broader office.

“...Oh,” Mrs. Landrum says. 

“ _Shit._ ” 

Tim leaves the room and enters an epic, building-wide search for Boyd Crowder. Art orders a lockdown, and when that proves fruitless the U.S. Marshals and security personnel spread their search to nearby streets and businesses. No one has seen him, no vehicles are missing, and yet he's gone. 

It’s embarrassing as fuck. 

“At least he didn’t take the cocaine,” Nelson offers when the Marshals reconvene--notably empty-handed--two hours after the initial search. A strategy session is abundantly necessary.

“Well we didn’t arrest the fucking cocaine, now did we?” Raylan asks, agitated. “Who was on him?”

“It don’t matter,” Art says, sparing Nelson. “He was with his lawyer. She says they were speaking in private in the hallway. Claims a Marshal came ‘round to escort him back to holding. I, obviously, cannot account for this Mystery Marshal. Must have been one of Boyd’s people.”

“Did we dump the phones?” Rachel asks to a crowd of the dumbfounded faces of her male colleagues. “He hasn’t spoken to anyone besides his lawyer. Maybe the call he claimed to have made to her was actually to one of his own, who passed along a message and organized this shitfest.”

It’s a good idea--possibly the first in a long time--and everyone gathered is quietly relieved to have it. 

“Get it done,” Art orders, and Rachel takes off. “Nelson,” he pauses, “Tim. Surveillance footage. Raylan, my office.”

Tim doesn’t argue for a better use of his time; the security footage from not only the courthouse, but surrounding streets and businesses has been slow to arrive, and therefore remains largely unexamined. It needs doing--Tim can’t argue with that--and for the foreseeable future, the shit jobs are his specialty. 

Tim doesn’t look up from his computer screen for the next two hours. 

It’s only when he spies Raylan's return out of the corner of his eye that Tim awards himself a short reprieve. It's after six, and Raylan's pulling on his jacket at his desk. He's found someplace to shower, again, and Tim feels a bizarre surge of jealousy. Despite the change of clothes, Tim still smells of swamp filth, and has surely passed that along to his desk chair. 

"I should have said something," Raylan tells him. The shame in his voice takes them both back to negotiations in the conference room. 

"You could have said what I did," Tim supposes. "Then we could wait for the DNA on the baby. That'd give us both nine months of leeway from Art." 

"I should have had a plan," Raylan says, ignoring Tim's strange attempt at bringing humor to the situation.

Tim doesn't allow Raylan the luxury of self-doubt; this was Tim’s fuck-up, as far as Tim was concerned. Maybe Raylan was guilty of compliance, of stacking the deck a little when it came to befriending Jimmy as their CI. Not making an effort suited Raylan’s plans well enough--he got to goof off and sleep with vacationing coeds. His absence didn’t _force_ Tim’s hand so much as allow Tim free reign to make the kinds of unsupervised mistakes Raylan was prone to. 

As was Raylan’s philosophy, he’d never woke up to a mistake he regretted.

So when Tim next speaks, it’s sharp, definitive. "What were you gonna say? What you told me? Let's see how well insinuating a broken jaw or a collapsed lung works out." Tim doesn't know how else they'd manage to silence Boyd Crowder, if not physically.

Raylan shrugs, allowing that. He changes the subject. 

"State Troopers didn’t find him, but I'm headed to Harlan anyway." he says. "If Boyd's planning an escape, there's bound to be a couple sock drawers he'll wanna empty, first."

"I'll come with," Tim says. He's found nothing on the security footage, and thinks he might go insane watching any more of it. He stands, draws on his jacket, but Raylan serves him a look that stops him one sleeve in.

"I say this with the utmost respect: Look at yourself." Raylan gestures at Tim hand raised and open-palmed, as if he’s still staving off the stench Tim carries with him. "You'd just be dead weight, Tim. Go home, get some sleep." Because that doesn’t seem to be enough to stall Tim’s plans, Raylan pulls out the big guns: “Art’s already put together a team. You ain’t on it.”

Tim lets his jacket sink off his shoulders, follows the motion through until he’s sat again at his desk, a stream of endless, useless footage at his fingertips.

“That’s fine,” he drawls. He is tired, but propped up on a rifle Tim knows he won’t lose his focus. That’s not what Raylan’s offering, however. All Raylan’s got is another empty seat in another stuffy car. Tim ain’t above saying no to that.

He drops his hands back on his keyboard, and queues up the footage he thinks _could_ be Boyd Crowder in the distance, but in reality is probably someone carrying a potted cactus. 

“I’m sure the real break in this case will come from Crowder’s Twitter feed. _#WendysOnTheInterstate._ ” 

“Ah, that’s his version of a false flag op. He’s at Dairy Queen.” Raylan smiles at his own joke for a time.

Tim points to the footage and asks, “Does that look like Crowder to you, or a houseplant?”

“Is that a trick question?” Raylan asks, because they both know they’ve got nothing. The LUDs came back on the phones, and even Rachel is getting nowhere fast trying to trace a go-phone. Curious, Raylan asks, "You know where Jimmy's at?"

"Nope,” Tim answers, decidedly uninterested. He’s got Vasquez’s word on Jimmy’s necessity, which is all he really needs. “They took him. Somebody did."

"Huh. Well. Hope you said goodbye."

"You think Boyd got to Nelson that quickly, turned him?" Tim smirks, imagines their fond farewells. “Ah well. There’s always the ransom call.” 

"Boyd's gonna want him dead and gone, to start." Raylan reasons. "Team covering him could use an experienced shooter, I bet."

"That's funny, 'cause I'm willing to take my chances."

“Take Jimmy’s chances, you mean.”

Tim frowns. “I’m sorry, were you not on the fuck away from me?”

“Night, Tim,” Raylan says, and walks out the office double doors with a grin on his face.

Tim scrubs his eyes and returns to the security footage. There’s nothing in it--he knew as much in the first viewing. Looking for something that isn’t there is right up his alley, though--he’s been perfecting that shit since that famed U.S. intelligence had him chasing his own ass around Afghanistan.

"Go on home."

It takes Tim a moment to realize Art is speaking to him. Like Raylan, the Chief is dressed to head home for the night. 

“I can do this for another riveting couple of hours,” Tim says. His tone is straddling sarcastic and devout--his usual fare, given the work. It must be a little too familiar, however, because Art doesn’t make a joke in return. Tim realizes Art still hasn’t forgiven him for screwing with the case.

And Jimmy, specifically.

Tim thinks he should have picked Raylan’s brain over this--sought a timeline as to how long his boss is going to be pissed. 

"Go on home,” Art repeats. “Take the morning."

It’s a grossly small conceit--if that. A consolation prize for working round the clock, or the start of Tim’s punishment? Tim decides he wants to know. "The morning, the afternoon, the week--am I fired, or what?”

Art shoots him a mean look, and issues a stark warning: “You could be.”

It’s loud. There are still enough hangers-on in the office working the evening shift that the comment is well heard by a considerable audience. And none of them--least of all Tim--have the luxury of having misheard. 

“Bullshit,” Tim spits. He takes his jacket, keys, and his leave. Art doesn’t contradict him, but a non-apology is just that. Tim’s not sure what he wants to hear, anyway. 

\- 

Once home, Tim plans to drink after the shitshow of a day he’s had. Coming out in the least desirable way--to his boss of all people--and under circumstances of profound unprofessionalism… it earns him a sloppy night. That he isn't needed tomorrow morning--even better. 

He takes a shower, first, then starts drinking with a towel around his waist and half a mind to lose that, too. When he trades up for top-shelf shit, however, he gets dressed incase he puts away his entire evening through the course of a bottle. Just another little habit he picked up from the Army--he can’t sleep naked. It only leads to waking up unprepared. 

Tim drinks himself through warm and happy very quickly, and stumbles into thoughtful with a sip too many. He toys with his phone, decides he doesn’t want to tell Jack he’s back in town, lest it read like a potential levied invitation. Instead, Tim texts what is essentially a good-bye: _Out at work. If that changes things._

Immediately, he gets back: _It does. Thx._

Tim frowns for a good, _long_ while before deleting the message, deleting the contact, and accepting the end of that relationship. It’s within the terms they set--he knows that. Tim’s only sore because he didn’t think he’d ever be the one to break them. 

He goes back and reads some of the back-and-forth between himself and Jimmy, gives himself a headache looking at tiny, bright screen, and drinks more to even out. He sleeps a little, arms crossed and head tilted forward in the corner of his couch.

Just after nine, Tim hears a pounding that is distinctly outside his own head. He arms himself and answers the door. It’s not a habit he remembers picking up anywhere in particular.

It’s Rachel. And a few feet behind her and to the left, hunched forward in his sheepskin coat, is Jimmy.

"This is unorthodox," Tim says after a second spent observing the pair, and immediately grasping Rachel’s intent. He steps aside and lets Jimmy enter, but remains in the doorway with Rachel, who pointedly doesn't follow. Tim's speaking voice is heavy and loose, and he looks like how he sounds: awoken from an uneasy sleep, itself the product of an empty six-pack and a splash of bourbon.

"We can't spare the manpower," Rachel says, and Tim knows she means the two Marshals tasked with staking out Jimmy’s hotel room. It’s protocol. Her expression tightens some as she makes the leap from professional to personal business. Tim, feeling the appropriately built pressure, steps outside and joins her. He closes the door behind him. 

“Really, grossly, _fucking unorthodox,_ Rachel.”

He’s not saying no, he’s just stating facts. Rachel gets it. It’s the kind of thing Raylan pulls when he’s given an assignment that really speaks to him, practically _sings_ with potential to go sour.

“Noted,” she says primly. Then, a little sadly because this was her observation some weeks ago, and it hasn’t changed: “You look like shit.”

Tim shrugs, works to keep himself easy and sure. It’s a difficult thing to fake, several drinks in. “What can I say? I like Mexico, but it don’t like me back.”

Rachel crosses her arms across her chest and doesn’t crack so much as a smile. She’s tired of hearing as many cover stories from her own coworkers as she does out of the mouths of fugitives. They’re not even as creative.

"I'm sorry," Tim sighs. He decides to get out in front of it. He looks her in the eye again, and the gesture calls back to the earlier instance in Art’s office. "About lying to you."

"Tim," Rachel says sweetly, sadly, "You idiot. Of course I _knew._ " 

"Oh." Tim frowns. “Well I take it back, then.”

"I thought I'd give you time. Two years was kind of pushing it, but..." She smiles and lets Tim off the hook. For the millionth time, he’s reminded that he doesn’t deserve her. She gives him a look like she agrees with exactly that sentiment. “You’re okay, right? Don’t lie to me again.”

“I’m fine,” Tim says, because he does believe it to be the truth. Like so many of his friends, he’s perfectly fine until he’s dead. That’s the only marker he knows--it’s sure, final, and in it there is no error. “‘Course I’m fine.”

He tries to keep downwind nonetheless; he knows what is heavy on his breath. 

“How’s,” Tim gestures like he’s turning a doorknob the size of a grapefruit. It’s odd, but somehow indicates his query.

“Art,” Rachel stops, knowing she’s touched on what Tim really wants to know. “Art’s… going to be fine with it.” 

“What’s that mean,” Tim asks. He’s sporting a loopy half-smile, like he doesn’t know _exactly_ what that means, and isn’t as concerned as he is.

“We talked about it. I talked,” Rachel waves a hand, “Explained.” 

She promptly swats Tim’s hand when he makes a crude gesture about _what,_ precisely, it is he imagines Art requires an explanation on. The fundamentals, really. The mechanics. 

"You didn't have to do that," Tim tells her. He leans against his apartment door. The dark green sweatshirt he drew on the second he returned home keeps him warm despite the cool night air. His feet--bare--are another story. Cold or not, he makes time for more juvenile teasing. “Put in a good word for my abominable ways, I mean.”

“You know that’s not what he thinks,” Rachel chides.

Tim shrugs a shoulder. “Wouldn’t blame him.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. It’s not that Tim doesn’t have cause to be concerned--it was a _long_ talk she’d had with Art--but Rachel knows better than to let on to any unease. Tim will latch onto it, give the matter his full attention. She throws an arm towards the closed door. “He knows I brought Jimmy here.”

“Oh, sweet,” Tim pumps a fist, “So I have his blessing?”

“You have his trust,” Rachel corrects.

“That’s considerably less sexy.”

“Tim--”

Tim holds up his hands in surrender. “Trust, responsibility, yeah, _I got it._ I’ll see that he brushes and flosses his teeth.”

“Get some sleep,” Rachel insists, then casts a wary glance once-over of her partner. “Will he be a problem?”

“I can sleep through anything,” Tim jokes, then sobers. “It’s fine. Thanks.” 

She draws him in for an unexpected half-hug. It’s just her arm around his shoulders, their chests grazing, but it’s a lot for either of them--to give and to receive. 

Tim goes back inside, sighs, seeing Jimmy on the couch. He looks shifty, like he thinks this set up is too good to be true. Tim only hopes he didn’t make himself so obvious on the ride over.

“They feed you yet?”

Jimmy gives him a confused look. 

“Three square meals and all that. Prisoner’s rights.” Tim waves a hand, plucks his phone from his jeans pocket. He doesn’t bother checking the fridge or pantry; he’s not going to cook for this boy. “Pizza okay?”

Tim dials the number before he even sees Jimmy’s agreeable shrug. He tells himself he wanted something to eat, anyway. He tells himself he's up to play chaperone. 

Tim tells himself a lot of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where is Boyd? Will Jimmy get the slumber party of his dreams? WHAT TOPPINGS DID TIM ORDER ON THE PIZZA?
> 
> Important questions, all. Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

Jimmy sits on Tim’s couch looking slight and humbled as Tim lays down the ground rules: no making phone calls, no leaving the premises, no handling of firearms or other materials he could make use as a weapon.

“You can shower, if you want.” Tim finishes on a high note. “And you can drink. I am.” 

To punctuate that point, Tim goes into his kitchen and collects two beers from the fridge. Jimmy accepts the one that comes his way, and nervously downs about half in the time it takes Tim to pull a few bills from his wallet for the coming pizza, then round the couch and take a seat. 

Jimmy slows his intake and tries to relax. He takes in Tim’s apartment, surprised even more so than Tim that _this_ is where the Marshals watching him decided he’d be better suited. He only remembers Deputy Brooks arriving, saying that she had orders from the Chief to relieve the Marshals on guard-duty. 

“The manhunt takes precedence,” she’d said. Jimmy knew of Boyd’s departure--he’d been questioned about it in a locked room for some time--but this was the first he’d heard of it being elevated to _manhunt_ status. At the time, Jimmy wished he _was_ in contact with Boyd. He’d get a kick out of all the trouble he’d caused. 

But Jimmy knew better than to even joke about that, so he stayed quiet and listened for his place in the change of hands. Deputy Brooks led him into the motel parking lot, then the back seat of her car. She explained it was her responsibility to deliver the CI to his Deputy. It sounded simple enough, at the time, but doesn’t feel that way, now. Tim wasn’t expecting company-- _clearly_ \--and least of all Jimmy. 

To that point, Jimmy wills himself to keep his eyes off Tim. He looks around the place, and chastises himself for not snooping when Tim was outside with the other Deputy. Instead, he’d immediately found the most inoffensive place to station himself--the couch--and sat with his duffle of belongings at his feet. A day and a half of being ordered around by anyone with a badge on their hip, and he’s already used to it. 

Jimmy knows if he factors Tim into that equation, he’s been kowtowing to the law for much longer than that. Thing is, it’s easier to pretend that’s not what they’re doing. 

He takes stock of his surroundings. The television is large and mounted to the interior wall. The couch is either second-hand or doubles as a bed, for as soft and worn as it feels. The far wall is near invisible behind two large bookshelves, each stuffed full of paperbacks and heavy-looking hardcovers alike. Under their looming heights, Jimmy feels a little intimidated. Boyd’s well-read to a damn fault, but what else is a fella going to do in prison? The fact that Tim _owns_ so many books is overwhelming in itself. 

Money, as Jimmy understands it, is a language. It’s transitory, changing hands to get a deal done. _Rarely_ is it a physical thing. When it presents itself in that way, it’s a nice house or a fancy car. Tim’s place isn’t fancy. His car belongs to the U.S. Marshal Service. 

But he’s got a lot of books. 

Jimmy gives up counting them and asks, “Do you not want me here?” 

Tim gives him the benefit of a moment's hesitation before answering, “Honestly, no. You being here means I fucked up.”

“Well, I like being here.” 

“I meant what I said,” Tim tells him. He doesn't allow himself to smile, although he's finding it difficult not to. Jimmy's awfully presumptuous for someone who was dropped off at Tim's place like it was his first ever sleepover. It's about as cute as it is annoying, and Tim's too drunk to tell the difference. “I’m not gonna go to my boss tomorrow and tell him my dick slipped and here we are again.”

“Your boss knows?” Jimmy had guessed so, but he didn't have confirmation until now. He is, admittedly, surprised. He was holding out hope that maybe Tim had managed things better. Seeing him now--barefoot and drunk--Jimmy doesn't know what he expected.

Tim takes a long swig from his bottle, but it doesn't wash the bitterness from his tongue. “The case fell apart. They weren’t going to help if I didn’t give ‘em a reason. That being, you’d jeopardize the office and my career.”

Jimmy goes wide-eyed. “I wouldn’t--”

“I know," Tim says, and immediately takes another swig. “I had to say something. You got deniability, though. No one outside of that room knows.”

“It ain’t the same for you,” Jimmy guesses--correctly. 

It's not something Tim wants to think about right now. He's drinking to make himself feel better, after all. Why ruin it with careful thought and consideration of his shitty circumstances? “No, I’ll get written up. Vasquez--the lawyer--was there, so my boss can’t get away with just giving me shit assignments for the rest of my life. There’s gonna be an official complaint. It's going to cross a lot of desks.” 

Both men are quiet as Jimmy tries to appreciate the scope of what Tim’s telling him. “So. That’s it.”

Tim throws out an arm, dramatic and swooping. Tim doesn't know Shakespeare and yet he thinks, _Goddamn Shakespeare._ “That’s it.”

The arm curls back. Tim runs the hand through his damp hair. He's clean, and really feels it. He's even okay with Jimmy being here, and asinine as that is, given what he's done. He's home, and even after Mexico, Florida, and Raylan's driving--he's alive. Which he knows because he's been flayed open. Parts of him have been pulled back, peeled away. He's admitted to boyfriends now, to desires and fears alike. It's new to him, and every second he feels his heart pounding fat and full into open air. His secrets are not his own. 

This isn’t what Tim wanted, but because it’s something he had to do, he’s strangely at ease with it. He supposes that’s true of anything difficult: once the choice is taken away, it isn’t really so hard. 

“So… what’s stopping us?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot,” Tim concedes. He glances at Jimmy, thinks--really thinks--why not?

Tim finishes his beer, sets the empty on the floor. He moves closer to Jimmy on the couch and takes stock of what's before him. He does this for two reasons: he's a forgetful drunk, and men have told him he has this incredibly sexy, hungry stare. Tim hopes it's not entirely bullshit. He's never practiced in a mirror, much less been hungry for himself. 

But then he sees it, his own stare reflected in Jimmy's own glassy blue eyes. 

_Shit, they weren't kidding._

Tim brushes a thumb over a scar on Jimmy’s cheek. 

“What happened there?”

“Snakebite,” Jimmy says, quick like a shot.

Tim’s amused smile shows a sliver of teeth. “No kidding?” 

“Rattler. Boyd--” Jimmy stops, his breath hitching when Tim’s thumb finds his bottom lip. “He saved my life.” 

“You sure it wasn’t some medical professional who did that?” Tim sounds smart and smarmy, but Jimmy glazes over the slight.

“No. It was Boyd. It’s always gonna be Boyd.”

Tim's way past having heard enough about Boyd Crowder, patron saint of methheads, the singular dial on Jimmy's limited moral compass. There’s reverence in Jimmy’s voice, a fortitude that plagues only the truest believers. While Tim accepts Jimmy will always be that, he thinks maybe there’s time yet for conversion. 

“You saved my ass the other night,” Tim says, managing to keep his tone level. “Both mine and Raylan’s. Boyd would have let us die, shot us himself if he saw cause in it.” Tim fixes Jimmy with that stare again, securing his attention if nothing else. “You gotta know that, Jimmy. He’s a piece of shit. _At his best,_ he’s a piece of shit.”

Jimmy settles into the kind of thoughtful quiet that reeks of ruin. “I know you think that--”

“Fuck _me,_ you're exhausting.” Tim drops a knee between Jimmy’s legs, leans in, and kisses him. There’s enough force to catch Jimmy by surprise, but he quickly counters Tim’s plunge and complements the exchange.

They push and drive one another further until their breaths come away ragged. Then, the excitement turns into something new. Jimmy initiates a longer, slower string of kisses. He draws Tim in physically, so that Tim’s not so much looming over him, arms held strong for balance, as he is sunken down, fit cozily against Jimmy. There’s more of Tim’s weight on Jimmy’s left side, so he draws his right hand up to Tim’s cheek, as if to steady him. 

Jimmy’s not known the Deputy to lose his footing, yet, but somehow the touch feels necessary. 

At first, Jimmy gets the feeling Tim is only humoring him with the kissing. Maybe because he'd been quick to tackle Jimmy's cock in Mexico, and that's what he prefers. But Tim seems to warm to it--or at least, he toughs it out.

Sharing such deep kisses feels like they’re tapping into something old and measured--affection, in its barest terms. There’s nothing changing hands here, only mutual desire met with ache, and seeded in opportunity. It’s more exciting than anything Jimmy’s known, yet.

Overcome, he blurts out, “Can I see you naked?” 

Jimmy knows he’s jumped the gun when Tim looks down on him with a wolfish grin.

“I guess it’s only fair,” Tim says, and gets a kick out of watching Jimmy blush from neck to cheeks. They only get as far as Tim losing his shirt.

In the hotel room in Mexico, Jimmy didn’t take his time. So preoccupied with what Tim was doing to him-- _for him_ \--Jimmy let the moment get away. As early as the following morning, Jimmy regretted his harried behavior, and worried he’d let his one chance pass as bright and fleeting as a dream. Now, it plays slow, with Jimmy and Tim spilling into one another, breath by breath. 

“I like that it’s you,” Jimmy says into Tim’s collarbone when they break momentarily. 

“Stop,” Tim grunts, and finds Jimmy’s mouth again. “You’re killing the mood.”

Knocking at the apartment door startles Jimmy thoroughly, but Tim hardly moves. In Tim's amused smirk, Jimmy remembers the pizza. 

"Shit," Jimmy breathes. "Already?"

"It's just a couple blocks away," Tim murmurs against his jaw. "You didn't see it driving in?"

"I wasn't thinking, _oh, going to Deputy Gutterson’s, should I bring some goddamn CinnaStix to make a good impression?_ ”

“Would have done the trick, though.” Tim kisses him one last time, then pulls away--but not too far. Very close to Jimmy’s face, Tim says, “Skip you ahead a few lessons, ask him to join us.”

Jimmy’s eyes go wide, but his face reads as open, curious. Tim knows not every conversation is a _big_ conversation, and is better adept at gleaning more by teasing, dropping lines and watching Jimmy pick them up, carry, and run with them--or not. 

“Next time,” Tim promises, then pulls on his shirt. 

The pizza slows things down. Jimmy discloses he hasn’t eaten anything all day, and Tim chalks it up to law enforcement getting lost chasing their own asses, and not pointed disregard for his wellbeing. 

“You would think that,” Jimmy says between his second and third slice. The accusation is said without malice, only amusement. Tim supposes he’s getting a taste of what Raylan deals with in Boyd: a player who thinks their stations in life are opposite, but equal. 

Tim eats, too. Now that he’s back on the clock, he can’t be nursing the kind of hangover he’d like to--the kind of hangover a man _deserves_ after the week he’s had. 

Tim turns on the TV, finds an NFL game. 

“Gronkowski, huh?”

“ _Shit,_ ” Tim says in agreement. 

For a time they watch the Patriots, a snowstorm at their backs, crush their opponents handily. Tim calls it by the first play of the third quarter, and they find an old _Simpsons_ rerun, instead. They both grin at the first gag, but Jimmy doesn’t stop.

“Is being gay always this fun?”

Tim chokes on his pizza trying not to laugh. He sobers, says, “Almost never.” 

Tim breaks from the couch and goes to the kitchen. He downs a glass of water, then collects two more beers for Jimmy and himself. They crack open, icy cold and satisfying in the way a tree is, split apart after an ice storm. Tim doesn't start into his right away. He allows himself to feel the burning cold in his hand, and it's enough to shock his system and realign his focus on Jimmy. “This is your definition of fun?”

Jimmy suddenly looks embarrassed where he wasn't before. “I dunno. There’s a guy…”

“You set a high bar.” Tim looks at his beer, but still doesn’t drink. “It’s a lot of fun, some of the time. Mostly, though, it’s just life. As pointless or worthwhile as you make it.” Tim frowns, takes a swig, then amends, “Sorry. I’ve had a few.” 

Tim thinks about telling Jimmy that some of the time, it’s just miserable fucking. That you make costly mistakes in dark places, where it’s easy to lose what little sense of self you have, going in. And no matter how much you want to lose yourself, sometimes, to a warm body and a good feeling, there’s always the lingering sense that you’re not getting lost, you’re being taken. But he’s not drunk enough for _that._

He must look it, though, because Jimmy goes in on him with questions. He is unabashedly curious in a way Tim knows that, for his own good, Jimmy has long stifled. “But it’s lonely, right? Is it always this lonely?”

Jimmy--perhaps pointedly, perhaps not--looks around the narrow space of Tim's apartment. Even with the two crowded bookshelves, couch and coffee table, kitchen and bar stools, tiny bathroom and laundry room, and holed-away bedroom, all fit into a scant 700 sq feet, the place feels solitary and lonesome. 

Tim prefers terms like _neat_ and _clean,_ but he can see Jimmy's meaning. There is no great diversity to the space. All the things are Tim's favor of style--his favorite books, his dull blue and gray tones. Nothing has the distinct look of compromise. Nothing is shared. 

"I'm the wrong person to ask, I think."

"Well you're the only person here."

"That attitude will remedy loneliness, surely." Tim wipes his mouth with his hand, and doesn’t miss Jimmy looking at his lips as they come away pink and agitated. "Is that what you want? A boyfriend? In every sense... Like a girlfriend?"

"No,” Jimmy says with some exasperation. “A boyfriend."

"Yeah but--okay." Tim has to give him that one. Equality of the sexes, or some shit. "I've had boyfriends. I don't know if I ever felt any less alone with 'em than without."

Jimmy squints at that, not quite sure what to make of it. He throws it onto the same pile as the bare feet and drunkenness. 

And maybe Tim gets it, too. Cuts himself on just the edge of his own words. He finishes his beer and stands up, steps to the left and turns so that he's looming over Jimmy. 

"Bedroom," he says. "Come on."

There’s a streetlight just beyond Tim’s bedroom window, almost level with it. Because Tim still has the paper-thin, maroon-colored, came-with-the-apartment blinds, hazy light blurs into the room. It covers the bed like an extra blanket, soft and warm. Coupled with the open door to the living room, there’s enough light to see by, at least--something for which Jimmy is immensely grateful. 

He and Tim are pressed close, kissing because Jimmy can’t _not_ do it once he’s given the invitation. Jimmy tastes like pizza while Tim is still hanging onto some hints of bourbon from earlier. Both their lips are slick with grease. Tim breaks away to again shed his t-shirt and thumb open his jeans. It’s not something Jimmy wants to miss, so he takes a step back and does the same. 

The alcohol buzzes between Tim’s ears and he feels like a live wire, stripped open and bare. He sees this playing out like so many other nights, with so many other men. He sees Jimmy’s flesh and feels his own as the cold air touches it. There’s excitement building up everywhere--in their discarded clothes and naked bodies, gestating in the dark of the room, even. 

It’s against Tim’s every instinct that he decides to give Jimmy the opportunity he keeps asking for: to instigate, to lead. Tim lies back and lets Jimmy command him. 

Jimmy behaves as though he understands the severity of Tim’s offer. He disguises his tasting of Tim as hungry kisses, keeps them slow and focused while he tugs off the remainder of Tim’s clothes. His hand arrives warm around Tim’s cock. Without words, Tim reaches for the second drawer in the small bedside cabinet, and Jimmy meets him there, understanding. Jimmy looks in the drawer and chooses a lubricant rather than a condom, determined to get Tim off with a handjob. 

It’s something of a compromise, even if it doesn’t feel like one to Tim. But Jimmy cannot _will himself away_ from Tim’s mouth. 

Tim is quick to reciprocate. Jimmy--with youth and exuberance on his side--is already hard. He grinds into Tim’s hand, seeking speedy completion. Tim keeps his touch measured, but Jimmy comes first, anyway. He’s quick to ensure Tim meets a likewise agreeable end. Jimmy grips Tim and pumps him hard, bringing Tim to a tantalizing edge where he whines to spill over. It’s the most absurd sound-- _petulance,_ from his rock of a man--and Jimmy ends their kissing and looks upon Tim like he cannot fathom what he’s heard, as if every turn that has ultimately brought them here was entirely copacetic, but _this._ This was one Mexican standoff too many.

Tim stares back, his expression so intense Jimmy doesn’t know whether to expect a punch to the face or another kiss. Tim bares his teeth and comes with a grimace. Relief floods his features for a split second, and Jimmy sees a face he hardly recognizes. 

Suddenly, Tim is soft. His eyes are half-lidded, not their usual narrowed. No hard lines split his brow. Even the scar across his nose seems to have disappeared into the moment.

Jimmy’s hand is still on Tim’s cock, and he bends to meet it. 

Tim genuinely doesn’t know if Jimmy only means to taste him--to which Tim wants to say _stop, man, it ain’t great_ \--or if he intends a second turn so quickly after the first, and indeed if Jimmy expects the same. But Jimmy slows his movements, and seems to relish the opportunity to bring Tim down from his unequivocal high. 

The gesture, as best as Tim can term it, is _kind._ Getting Tim off is not a means to an end for Jimmy. It's an entirely new experience. And to that point, Tim gives in, gives back, and wills himself not to prize Jimmy for all his hard work, but to reward him for simply approaching what he wants. For not being afraid to ask. 

Tim kisses and touches Jimmy like he thinks someone would want to be kissed and touched. He’s surprised by his own delighting in the exchange. The absence of necessity, Tim finds, is refreshing. It gives new life to the proceedings. 

They fall together sated, still, in the center of the bed. Light from the street spreads warmly across their limbs, turning their flesh bodies pink, the blue-colored bedsheets the softest purple. Beyond them, the far wall and corners of the room are drenched in shadow. Jimmy, who is quiet but wide-eyed, is imagining them suspended in blackest space. It isn’t much of a stretch; he feels adrift now in some wide universe, tethered only to Tim.

"You okay?" It's the first thing Tim's said since they crossed into the bedroom. Jimmy nods.

"I just don't know what to say, is all." Jimmy's fingers ghost down the part of Tim's forearm that's hanging loosely over his middle. "Thank you."

Tim is struck and rendered speechless by the sincerity. He doesn't want to laugh it off-- _Like I should,_ he thinks. 

Instead, Tim closes the space between them. Even on his side, he bears Jimmy's weight, embraces their bodies in a hug. It's one that hangs on convictions and fingertips. When Jimmy's grip turns tight on his arm, Tim pulls back.

“Felt good,” Tim assures him. “In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.” Jimmy’s quite confident about his first performance. 

Tim’s not sure where a twenty-five year old virgin-by-admission gets such confidence, but he doesn’t say anything to spoil it. Instead, he finds himself wanting to say Jimmy looks right nice in his bed, bathed in soft pink light and with the sheets drawn to him like a whirlpool. He seems to be sinking, and Tim knows he can either reach out and hold on or--

"Go to sleep," Tim instructs, somehow sounding authoritative through a whisper. "I'll wake you early, get you cleaned up."

He really doesn't want Jimmy leaving here looking like he does. _Perfect,_ really.

"I get up early, anyway," Jimmy dismisses warmly. 

Tim lets that slide. He'll believe it when he sees it. 

Tim smooths a hand down Jimmy's back, keeps it PG by avoiding his ass. With the light streaming in, he has a view of the scars from Jimmy's father’s beatings. Tim decides they look… _routine,_ but can’t figure how he’s come to the word. His own father beat him, sure--but it came out of nowhere. Broken bones maybe twice a year, being locked in the basement for a weekend, shit like that. Nothing Tim ever felt prepared for--not like a whipping. A whipping comes with procedure. It’s the wrong thing to say, that he wishes something like this had been his punishment for existing. Tim touches the lily-white scars, careful not to wake Jimmy. He’d prefer it to the fear of the unknown. 

But Jimmy’s embarrassed as hell about it, and some of the scars span both cheeks in ugly, ropey lines. Tim can understand where his reticence to engage with another person comes from. It’s a lot to open with: _I’m a big gay virgin, don’t mind the childhood abuse._

"What are you doing," Jimmy asks. He's half-asleep, but can tell Tim's no longer pressed against him.

"Just looking,” Tim says, then stays in bed until Jimmy is fully asleep. Perhaps he stays longer than necessary, but eventually his night must take a different turn. Tim slips out of bed, takes Jimmy's duffle bag from the floor, and quietly closes his bedroom door behind him. 

Tim sits on the couch and feels the weight of the duffle in his lap. It's old--older than Jimmy, even--and Tim pegs it as some kind of school-issued bag for athletes. The colors, now faded, were once heavy and rich. Tim can't figure if it's Jimmy's, or if it's something he collected out of an abandoned school. There are enough of them in Harlan County. 

He unzips the thing and searches through Jimmy’s belongings. Mostly, it’s a few dirty shirts and pairs of underwear--the stuff he wore in Mexico. There’s a phone charger, but no phone--which isn’t a surprise, Tim knows it’s been taken into evidence. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but feels compelled to look. They’ve lost enough in this case by just not keeping an eye on things, and Tim won’t have another mishap carry on right under his nose.

Tim doesn’t find anything suspicious. That in itself prompts another search, wherein Tim is convinced he didn’t find anything initially because he didn’t want to. Repacking the bag for a second time, however, Tim feels something distinct. Hard and small, no larger than a stick of butter. He turns out the canvas bag again, searches the pockets to a dusty pair of jeans, unrolls socks. Just as Tim is about to accept that his paranoia is manifesting itself as a tactile hallucination, his fingertips brush against the rough edges of a hand-sewn seam along the interior of the bag. He tears the threads and finds the phone: an older model, plastic and rounded, and without a scratch on it. He turns it on, perhaps for the first time. 

It slowly comes to life, pixelated _Nokia_ font against a dull green screen and all. 

Before Tim investigates further, he sighs, cleans up the mess he’s made of Jimmy’s bag and considers his discovery. He is torn between waking Jimmy for an impromptu interrogation, and pretending this never happened.

Only a few days ago, Tim was deciding whether or not to turn him away. Now, Jimmy’s in his bed. Sat in only his underpants, pizza crumbs and empties strewn across his coffee table, Tim thinks that maybe he’s been played. Then he considers Jimmy’s genuine enthusiasm for him, his delight in Tim’s company, and the ease with which he settled into Tim’s bed, his home. Tim thinks, _no._

He thinks, _never._

But he it doesn't matter--in the morning, the U.S. Marshal Service will have a better plan of attack in going after Boyd, Tim will be called into action, and he'll send Jimmy away. He’ll tell Art about the extra, hidden phone. He’ll hand Jimmy over to WITSEC, shoulder the knowing looks of whoever in the office draws the short straw of having to come get the kid out of Tim’s bed. 

Tim wonders if he’ll go quietly. 

_Probably,_ he thinks. Jimmy’s not stupid. He’ll see Tim for a liar and a cheat the second he realizes what’s going on, and he won’t be sorry to leave it all behind. 

Tim turns over the burner in his hands. It has no real value outside its anonymity. Searching through its folders, he finds no contacts and no outgoing messages. There is but one unopened message in the inbox: _For when you need to find me._

Tim almost wishes the message was as verbose as Boyd Crowder is prone towards; maybe then it would give some hint, either way, if Jimmy is expecting this. Tim imagines it has a GPS tracker--and hopes so, in fact. He’d rather not leave incriminating evidence like his own texted address and accompanying taunt. _Come and get us._

Instead of doing anything he _thinks_ he’ll regret, Tim goes with the sure thing: he calls Raylan. 

“Hey,” Raylan starts, clearly surprised to be hearing from Tim. “I heard you got company.”

When Tim hesitates, loses the moment for a snappy response, Raylan just _knows,_ and chuckles warmly. 

“Good for you,” Raylan says, and again, Tim forgets why he called.

“Shut up,” Tim says.

“Now you see my side of things,” Raylan crowes. His tone is slick and confident. “Ain’t so easy being a monk, is it?”

“Are you doing anything about this?” Tim asks after finding his voice. The longer he turns over the burner phone in his hand, the heavier it feels. “Or should I?” 

Raylan quickly sobers. “What are you thinking?”

Tim is quiet for a time before answering, “I’m thinking I may be given the opportunity.” 

“I won’t begrudge you for taking it,” Raylan says. It doesn’t sound sincere in the slightest, but Tim doesn’t care. 

“Anything on your end?”

“All quiet,” Raylan sighs, disgruntled. “He’s still in the wind.” For Raylan, that means Boyd’s not at Johnny’s bar or even in Harlan County. He’s checked some of Boyd’s old haunts-- _their_ old haunts, thinking maybe Boyd knows his time is up and is hoping to cut a deal with just Raylan. 

Raylan likes to imagine he could tell Boyd he’s barking up the wrong tree, and mean it. It isn’t a thought he entertains long. There’s a flaw in it, deep down. 

“There’s a phone here,” Tim mumbles, his voice grating against the palm of his hand. He’s holding his own phone like he doesn’t want Raylan hearing what he has to say. “Sewn into Jimmy’s bag. I don’t think he knows about it.”

“Bullshit,” Raylan spits, not believing that for a second. Because he knows this situation, has lived it, and knows exactly what it is that clouds Tim’s judgment, Raylan adds a reluctant, “Y’alright?”

“I don’t think he knows about it,” Tim repeats, and it’s all the answer Raylan needs to hear.

Raylan knows there’s a response to this--some of the common sense his colleagues are always spouting. He can’t seem to recall any of it, now. It’s there in his head. He knows it like history--which he supposes is to reason for his fuzzy account.

He’s not stalled for long. A soft hum interrupts his and Tim’s conversation.

“Well hell,” Raylan says, sounding quietly amused. “Boyd’s calling _me._ ”

There’s protocol, and they both know it. Raylan should get a trace on the line, or at the very least do his damndest to puzzle Boyd’s location, himself. He ought to tell the Marshal task force and State Troopers out looking for him in all the wrong places. And _Tim_ should remind him of this. 

Neither is of a mind to do any such thing.

Tim says, “Tell him Jimmy’s gonna talk. That I’m going to make him.”

“I’ll hear him out,” Raylan reasons. It’s his way of saying, _Fuck no. I’m gonna get him._

“Send him my way,” Tim says what he means a little clearer. “Send him _towards_ the reasonable doubt, the accomplice who snitched on him.” 

Raylan makes a contemplative noise, and Tim loses him. The line cuts out, too. 

Tim gets a call back in five excruciatingly long minutes. 

"It's bullshit," Raylan starts, spitting mad. "He says it's over. He says he's gone." 

Tim sleeps in short bursts throughout the night. He wakes periodically, with every passing car along the street backing his apartment compe, and soft snore coming from Jimmy in the bedroom. He checks the windows, the door, listens for activity in nearby units. He waits, his sidearm ready, for the inevitable: for Boyd Crowder's plans to spill, for his supposed escape to bring him right back to Lexington and in search of the snitch who led him to ruin. Tim waits for the once-loyal disciple to win himself a flurry of bullets. He defends himself by reasoning it's no different from what they were doing this entire time, handjobs and pizza dates be damned. 

Jimmy is still the best thing they've got for determining Boyd's location. 

Tim's naturally an uneasy sleeper, so he doesn't feel like _complete_ shit when dawn breaks and he only has a scant, cumulative three hours to his name. He's long saved his nerves for his unconscious moments. Experience has taught him it's better--safer--to relax only when he cannot help it, when he's no use to himself or others, anyway. In the bleary morning hours, when the light creeping through his apartment is the color of weak tea and Tim can tell time by various markers--the crying baby in the apartment below him, the students in the adjacent unit, the woman who works nights and pulls in about this time--he accepts it: Boyd isn't coming for Jimmy.

Tim is more than a little disappointed. He wonders--and considers Raylan in this puzzle, too--if Boyd was true to his word. If he told his his friend--the law, his _enemy_ \--the truth precisely because Raylan would be adverse to believing it. Tim wonders if Jimmy, like the cocaine, wasn't worth coming back for. Boyd--wherever he is--still has and only needs his most precious commodity: his life. 

While Boyd's disappearing act seems to change everything, strategically it changes nothing. The manhunt is still in effect, and will only continue to broaden. Boyd's face will flood the offices of law enforcement across the Midwest, then make the rounds on regional news programs. 

_Something will come of it._ Tim tells himself this, anyway, and doesn't award himself the benefit of not considering precisely what that means. He knows what they're trying to do: corner Boyd into a tight place, pressure him to act out. For all his clever turns of phrase, Boyd is a one-trick pony. In a few days, the U.S. Marshal Service won't be looking for Boyd, anymore. They'll be following a blood trail. 

\- 

Jimmy wakes early, just before seven. Wearing his boxers and nothing else, he comes out of Tim’s room mid-stretch, then shys and folds his arms across his chest when he realizes he has an audience. He asks after the shower, looks like he wants to ask Tim to join him, even announces himself twice--"I'm gonna take a shower, now"--and waits. Tim's still too worked up about the phone, and in lieu of questioning Jimmy now, decides to remain angry and wondering. 

Jimmy showers and dresses alone, then joins Tim on the couch with purposefully disruptive enthusiasm. He steals a kiss and stretches out, bumping Tim's leg with his own. 

“Any idea when I can get my truck back?”

Tim's cleaning his sidearm, and doesn't bother looking up. “Uh. Unforeseen circumstances: it’s full of cocaine.” With some hesitation--because it seems the kind of thing Jimmy should have already figured, by now--Tim adds, “You know you're not free to go anywhere. Once we find Boyd, you're back under surveillance. The city’ll put you up in a hotel, pending the trial. If there is a trial.” 

“Oh.” Jimmy watches Tim's hands for a time. Their movements are as smooth as Jimmy remembers from last night, despite the change in venue. “What hotel?”

Tim shrugs. “Something close to the courthouse, probably. I’m not gonna ask. I won’t be visiting.” 

Jimmy grins at him. “I think you should. _And_ I think you will.” 

“I liked you better when you had no sense of self-worth,” Tim observes dryly. He doesn’t need to look at Jimmy to know that his comment landed like a meteor. And he doesn’t need their previous night together to know he doesn’t mean what he’s saying. 

“After,” he says. It’s sounding less and less like the lie he means it to be. “Or the defense will have a case that we’re in cahoots.”

“Is that the legal term?”

“Don’t get cute with me,” Tim warns. “It ain’t fair.” 

Jimmy outright laughs at that. “No one’s ever called me cute before.”

“Bullshit. You’re adorable.” Tim reassembles and loads his weapon with a deafening _click_ as he speaks, as if to punctuate his point. 

Jimmy ducks his head, embarrassed. “I mean, sure, _my mom_ …” _Before she stopped speaking altogether,_ he doesn’t add, because it never came from a place of malice. “People who wanted something. But not,” flustered, he gestures with a firm hand, indicating Tim. 

Tim has a look about him like he’s heard everything Jimmy chose not to say, all at once, and on a loop. He parts his lips and says the absolute last thing Jimmy expects to hear: “I feel like Raylan.”

Where Tim spoke in a rush of realization, Jimmy replies slow and drawn: “...Because you’re sleepin' with the country bumpkin?”

“Because I’m finding it damn near impossible to give a shit about anything beyond what I want.”

They sit in a shared, uneasy silence. If Tim's tone was anything different, even just a note kinder or a breath lighter, it'd be a line to preface some tender meeting. Instead, his explanation hollows out the room. Jimmy, once splayed out, now draws in on himself to counter the chill. Tim's staring at his cleaned firearm like he expects it to jump. He stands, leaves the living room to return the weapon to its holster, kept with his badge in his bedroom.

When he returns, Jimmy is ready. Out of necessity, he tries to pick up Tim’s bizarre line of thought and carry it into a conversation. “Ava always seemed to think Raylan would save her from all this. Trouble was, she’s like Boyd. She can’t get out, so she’ll rule.”

“You understand, though,” Tim says, mild like he might if they were having this talk in the Marshal’s offices downtown, “There’s nothing I can do for you if you don’t want it, too.”

Jimmy, offended, remarks, “I think I’ve made myself pretty clear. I didn’t fuck up Boyd’s life on a goddamn whim.” 

“You lied to the lawyer, though,” Tim doesn’t know what he means to say, exactly, beyond poking holes in Jimmy’s story. His mind keeps going back to the hidden cell phone, then strays off far beyond it. Tim cannot escape the fact that exactly what Jimmy predicted--that is, Boyd circumventing the law--has come to pass. He presses, “Seems to me you could have said what you wanted, and why you deserve it.” 

“I don’t know what good it’d do to burn you outta that deal,” Jimmy reasons. “‘Sides. I trust you.” Then, Jimmy frowns. “I don’t think I know what we’re talking about.”

Tim quirks his brow in a swift, unconscious motion that says _That’s why you’re cute, but you sure as shit ain’t smart_ without the commitment required to necessarily bruise Jimmy’s ego. Jimmy has to infer that all on his own. 

Tim knows he isn’t making this easy for the younger man. He wants a confession without having to ask for it, for fear of _actually_ confirming his suspicions. 

In Tim’s set expression, Jimmy sees consternation and mistakes it for hopelessness. “Hey, Tim--” 

Neither are able to register that it’s the first time Jimmy calls Tim by his first name. Their peace--as disjointed as it is--is suddenly pierced with a hail of bullets. They shatter Tim’s living room window in quick succession, spray at an angle and reach the interior wall. 

Tim shouts for Jimmy to get down, take cover--and is himself on the floor in an instant. He pulls a treated canvas bag, water resistant and sturdy, out from under the coffee table. From it, Tim retrieves the parts of a sniper rifle, and assembles it as bullets continue to stream in overhead. 

Tim scrambles to the window while keeping his head low and his aim steady. He needs to get a look at whoever’s shooting before he puts them down. It’s never a good thing, Tim knows, for his kills to prove a surprise. 

Just as he gains a vantage from the window, Tim is jostled by another eager body. It’s Jimmy, armed with the weapon Tim had just secured in his bedroom. Jimmy does not hesitate: he shoots back at their assailants. Tim’s response is--perhaps--overwrought. He raises a leg the best he can and kicks Jimmy in the side, then follows through and effectively shoves him through broken glass and out of the line of fire.

There are two men in the parking lot to Tim’s apartment complex. They’re large, indistinct in that way Tim knows grunts to be. 

Where Jimmy took almost a dozen shots, Tim needs only two: he plugs one of the men in the head, the other through the throat, severing the carotid artery. They fall where they stand. Crumple, really, like all men who across Tim’s sights tend to do. 

Tim’s stare is long and hard, despite the fact that he’s only looking down three stories and to the right. He’s still staring when he snaps his own state-issued firearm out of Jimmy's hands and tells him in no uncertain terms, “Son, you better _pray to God_ you didn’t hit anything.” 

“I may have hit your car,” Jimmy admits in a rush. “But they set it on fire, so…” 

It’s only then that Tim smells the gasoline. 

“Shit,” Tim says, turning his back to the scene and wrenching his phone from his jeans pocket. He hands it off to Jimmy. “Call it in. I’m going to check the other floors.” 

“Call--who do I call?” 

“Rachel Brooks for the shooting--fire department for the fucking fire. You got any more stupid questions for me?”

Jimmy actively takes the time to frown. “Yeah. You get the warranty on your TV?”

Tim looks behind him. Along with his wall, there are a number of puncture marks strewn through his television screen. From them, the materials of the screen split and spill open. Streaks of white, gray, and black color the darkened screen. Before Tim can think the image is beautiful in its eeriness, he remembers that he _didn’t_ buy the extended warranty. He never does.

_“Shit.”_

\- 

Raylan walks through the crime scene, hat pulled low to shelter him from the rising sun. Around him, police and crime scene investigators step lightly around covered bodies, tag and photograph bulletholes plotted throughout everything from human forms, to the apartment building, to Tim’s smoldering SUV. 

Raylan spies Tim standing like some common hillbilly, surrounded by officers in blue, a rifle slung over one shoulder, snapping answers to stupid questions. Raylan flashes his badge and guides Tim away, under a party’s worth of police tape, and back up to his apartment. 

“Maybe this is the best way,” Raylan says as he enters the apartment after Tim, finds more officers as well as Rachel and Jimmy. “I don't got to do it, now.”

“Bad news, Boyd ain't dead.”

“Oh.” Raylan seems genuinely cheered. “So there's still hope for me?”

“He ain’t even here,” Tim says, jerking his chin in the direction of the scene. “His people though.”

“I can ID ‘em from here,” Jimmy agrees. “If you can turn the big one over.”

Raylan goes to the window for the better view. There’s a lot of blood under one of the bodies, not so much for the other. “Shot through the neck,” Raylan observes, eyeing Tim. “You distracted?”

“Fearing for my life,” Tim drawls. “You got here quick.”

“I passed along your message,” Raylan says, purposefully vague given their company. “Thought it was worth a shot coming down, myself.”

Tim glances at Rachel. With all the excitement, he hadn’t seen her come in. He nods at her, asks, “So who are we waiting on?”

“Excuse me?” 

“To take Jimmy.” Tim doesn’t care to be coy anymore, given the state of things. He even meets Jimmy’s questionable look. Meets and ignores it. 

“Tim, we’ve got people racking up enough overtime--”

“Call Child Services, _something._ ” Tim throws an arm out to indicate Jimmy. “He can’t stay here. People are trying to kill him, here.” 

Enough officers glance up, curious for the riled exchange. Raylan decides to keep a cool head and joke, “Yeah, but maybe this’d be the last place they’d look?”

“You gotta be shitting me,” Tim says, defeated. “Do I have _zero_ say in this? Seriously, have I been fired?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Rachel says curtly. They all know this is a matter for Art to decide, but Tim isn’t the ideal go-between. She looks tired, and Tim almost regrets asking this of her. “Give me the day, all right?”

She’s holding her phone, _a promise,_ but Tim holds her up--just a hand on his forearm, but it might as well be a anchor. "I'm serious. He doesn’t stay here. Even if it's just me watching him at the office."

“You handled yourself alright,” Rachel says, although it pains her to take Raylan’s side in the argument. 

“That ain’t the point,” Tim says. He hears the bite in his own voice, and knows it’s wasted on Rachel. He tries to appease her with a better attitude. “This is at least something, though. Boyd’s still in contact with people.”

“No phones on either of the bodies,” Rachel says. “Could be they dumped them, and this was his last call.”

Tim nods, thoughtful. “Can I talk to you,” he gives a near indecipherable nod, indicating his bedroom, “Alone?” Rachel follows and instinctively closes the door behind her. 

Tim tells her about the phone sewn into Jimmy’s duffle bag. 

“Tim,” she sighs, accepting the item.

“I know,” Tim assures her. They leave the bedroom, nothing else said between them. 

Over the next two hours, Tim watches as his apartment slowly drains of people. The bodies, too, are removed from the front parking lot. Police vehicles disappear, their sirens finally silent. The bullet casings are collected from Tim’s floor, although the broken glass is left just as it fell. 

Rachel, having made good on her word, ultimately has to pass on the answer Tim didn’t want to hear. It’s Art’s determination that the best use of Tim's time is protecting the key witness and informant on their case. She at least has the decency to look about as fed-up with the answer as Tim, and promises she’ll continue to work their boss.

Raylan and Rachel take their leave--Raylan, of course, not without one final comment pinched from his smirking lips. He elbows Rachel, asks teasingly, "That couch look slept-on to you?" 

His apartment finally empty of interlopers, Tim sees Jimmy out of the corner of his eye. He’s dressed in his ugly sheepskin coat and has his bag--the one Tim ransacked--hooked over one shoulder. Something’s amiss, however, but it only takes Tim a second to realize what: Jimmy’s dirty clothes are tucked into his over-stuffed bag. The clean t-shirt and flannel he’s wearing are Tim’s. 

“My clothes,” Tim says, dropping his voice despite the lack of company, “Under your clothes?” 

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, defiant-like, as though he means to defend his thievery. 

He’s heard all of Tim’s efforts to get him out of the apartment. His safety on the line or not, it’s difficult not to take the comments to heart.

“You’re staying here,” Tim informs him, and lest it sound like an invitation he adds, “ _Apparently._ So don’t steal my shit. You can do a load of laundry.”

One of the officers taped a black plastic cover to Tim’s shattered window. He tears back a corner, sets up with his rifle, and gets comfortable. Even with his back to Jimmy, Tim can feel him staring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WILL. IT. EVER. END? I'm trying, guys. I SWEAR.


	15. Chapter 15

Initially, Jimmy’s excited to be spending more time at Tim’s, but that quickly passes. Tim doesn’t move from his position at the window, and the spray of bullets through his flatscreen sorely limits Jimmy’s options for killing time.

The ugly maroon blinds from Tim’s windows were shot to shit in the exchange. On Tim’s floor, their remains look like crepe paper snowflakes. Jimmy takes the initiative to clean up, but even that task occupies but a few minutes. Eventually, Jimmy takes a book off one of Tim’s shelves, settles in on the couch, and starts to read. 

In reality, he’s just watching Tim watch the street.

He makes for fine viewing. The t-shirt he’s wearing hugs the hard-won muscles in his back and shoulders. He hardly moves-- _hardly even seems to breathe_ \--and Jimmy gets lost in the idea that he’s meant to garner such viewership. 

“That book not to your tastes?”

Jimmy jumps a little, not expecting Tim to speak. 

“Huh? No… it’s great.”

“You haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes.” Finally, Tim shifts. “What is it? The book.”

“Uh,” Jimmy has to check the cover again, he’s already forgotten. “ _Dead Mountain._ Wanted something upbeat, you know?”

“Slow start,” Tim says, like he’s suddenly in agreement with Jimmy’s slow-to-build interest. 

“Thought it sounded cool," Jimmy says, closing the book. He leaves the couch and returns it to the shelf. His attention remains, however, and he scans a few more titles. "You got a lot of books about war.”

“People write a lot of books about war,” Tim confirms dryly. 

“Got a favorite?”

“That… ain’t quite the word.” 

“You got a lot of books about teenaged girls, too.” 

“I believe there is a heroine inside us all.”

Jimmy snorts softly, then continues browsing Tim’s bookcases. “What’s _The Song of Achilles_ about?”

Tim battles to keep the smirk off his face. “If that’s more your taste,” he drawls and doesn’t finish.

Jimmy gets it, after a time. “Oh.” The book comes off the shelf.

“It’s kind of… fruity.” Tim admits, then remembers that Jimmy didn’t pluck it from thin air; it was in Tim’s collection, read cover-to-cover. Tim rolls his shoulders and settles back into position. “It’s good.” 

Jimmy reads quietly for a time--so much so that Tim forgets he’s there, sat so close. He lounges long-ways on the couch, legs extended well over the armrest. About an hour in, Jimmy mutters, "Holy shit," and is quiet for the next two. 

Tim can see the shadow of his socked feet shrink on the floor as the light from the undisturbed partner to the blacked-out window changes direction. For all their shitty aim--neither Tim nor Jimmy sustained so much as a bullet's graze--Boyd's men at least managed to concentrate on the one living room window. 

Jimmy finishes the book with a dopey smile on his face. “That was pretty fucking gay," he informs Tim, who turns around in time to see Jimmy's pleased expression. It changes when Jimmy realizes he finally has Tim's attention again, becomes quiet and focused. 

"You want a drink?"

Tim thinks it’s sweet he bothers to ask. It’s considerably less sweet the offer is for Tim’s own supply. Tim pretends not to consider either points, arriving instead at a singular ruling: "Not when I'm working."

"Oh." Jimmy sounds disappointed, but his face still reads as hopeful. “Can I have one?”

Tim waves a hand, allowing it. While Jimmy’s in the kitchen he pokes around for something to present to Tim, and soon settles. "You want coffee?"

“I take it black,” Tim affirms.

Jimmy starts to brew a pot, and picks at one of the new holes in the wall while he waits. A few minutes later, he has a beer in his hand and coffee in the other.

“You’re not getting the deposit back on this place,” he says, and Tim clinks his mug to Jimmy’s bottle, and they drink to poor shots and dumb luck.

Tim sips his coffee, his gaze still turned outside, down at the newly stained parking lot. While he’s still awaiting his target, Tim has a thought: instead of telling himself a story, why doesn’t he just hear Jimmy’s?

He knows the basics: young kid joins up with some bad men. He wasn’t from Kentucky--Tim figured that from the accent, but knew there was stronger cause than that. Something awful threw him into this life, or else he’d be steadfast as Boyd’s other followers, who were born into Harlan and every dirty thing that comes with it. Tim doesn’t have to wonder what traumatic event triggered Jimmy’s departure from under Boyd’s wing; Jimmy’s indicated it was _Tim_ himself. Still, Tim doubts one night of getting under Jimmy’s skin, alternatively befriending him and accusing him of complacency will do the trick. 

Tim isn’t sure where to start, but Jimmy saves him from making the first move. He’s well into his first beer by now, and is already thirsty for another. He’s getting comfortable, chatty. Unfortunately for Tim, Jimmy is full of questions, not answers.

“Don’t you ever get lonely?” Jimmy asks, and must have forgotten he’s asked this of Tim already. Or else he’s still hunting for an answer that doesn’t leave him feeling cold and gutted.

Tim doesn’t quite know how to answer that. “Uh, I’ve had my dick sucked plenty.” 

“So you ain’t lonely.”

Tim watches a woman walking her schnauzer along a row of duplexes across the street. It shits in one of the yards, and they both keep walking. He doesn’t let his sniper sights ever land on her; he’s a steady hand, but Tim knows better. 

The schnauzer, though. 

Tim pulls the rifle from the window entirely, deciding to remain vigilant, but not over-eager. He sits with his back against the interior wall, which leaves his head for an easy target. Tim’s confident no one will get the jump on him a second time. 

From the corner of his eye, he can see Jimmy nursing his beer. 

“I like being alone,” Tim says.

Jimmy’s quick with a quiet rebuttal: “Well that’s fan-fucking-tastic for you. I hate it.”

Tim doesn’t hear a disagreement of preferences so much as he hears Jimmy wanting to admit something he’s ashamed of. Tim knows he’s not meant to educate Jimmy on the advantages of a solitary life, so he digs up an old truth of his own, dusts it off, and offers it up. “Used to make me feel like shit. Yeah, I guess.”

Jimmy scratches at the waxy beer bottle label with his thumbnail. “When’d that stop?”

“When I joined the Army. I don’t recommend that, necessarily.” Tim’s grinning, Jimmy’s not. So as not to drive the conversation into the ground, Tim detours--again--into honesty. “Took my mind of things, is all.”

“That’s not how you told it, before.” 

Tim realizes Jimmy’s been hanging on his every word since the moment they met. Still is. 

“Mostly took my mind off things,” Tim corrects. He doesn’t like admitting the ways in which war and his service met his own needs. Or worse, how it buried them. 

“Sometimes… sure. It sucked. When guys are calling their moms and girlfriends, pretending they wasn’t just crying ‘cause they’d wasted their first, or seen something so fucking _fucked-up_ and blown chunks.” Tim pulls his stare away from the window. He’d had a few of those instances, then less and less over his tours, until nothing bothered him at all. He looks at Jimmy, now, thinking he’s about to touch on some familiar territory. “The times where you’re scared for your life and your only worry is that no one will know or care that you’re gone. Not that you wanna break somebody’s heart, but,” Tim smirks, “Kind of.” 

Tim wants to return to his vigil out the window, but wills himself to give Jimmy just a little more of himself. “Why don’t you like being alone?”

A little in awe of all that Tim’s told him-- _that_ he’s told him anything at all--Jimmy starts talking and doesn’t stop. “Always have been, I guess. Had an older brother, he died when I was real small. My dad got angry and found religion and my mom kid of,” Jimmy ghosts his hand through the air, gesturing like his mother had simply disappeared. “Quiet place to live, between all that.” 

Tim catalogues these details--a family shattered by tragedy and rebuilt with the glue of fanaticism. Boyd Crowder would be right at home filling those voids.

Jimmy continues, “Left home pretty quick. Well, you seen my hide. Not that quick.” He smiles despite himself. “I liked it in Harlan. Working for Boyd--tending bar, even handling money at Audrey’s. There’s always people around.” 

Tim raises his eyebrows. “Part and parcel of it being a whorehouse.” 

“It was more than that.”

Tim squints his eyes. “Illegal casino?”

“I mean it.” Jimmy wets his lips and tries to focus his thoughts. That alone bothers him; Jimmy’s never had to convince anyone why sticking by Boyd’s side was right, let alone himself. He’s still under the impression that Boyd’s smarts and tenacity speak for themselves. “It was more than having people around, everybody knowing I worked for Boyd…” 

Tim has to cut him off. If getting Jimmy’s story means suffering some glowing memory of Boyd, Tim doesn’t want to hear it. “If you don’t shut the fuck up about Boyd fucking Crowder--”

“You’ll what?” Jimmy challenges, and is met with a look from Tim that quickly shreds his confidence.

“I’ll let you find out, is what.”

\- 

Tim’s less fun to talk to after that. Jimmy retaliates by drinking more of Tim’s beer, and even sneaking a few fingers of bourbon. 

Soon, Jimmy’s sat back on the couch, bored out of his mind and watching Tim. He’s still relentlessly staring out that window, his face bathed in heavy afternoon light, eyes narrowed against it. 

Jimmy informs him, “You’re really good-looking.”

“You been staring at my backside for the last hour.”

“Your _backside_ is really good-looking.” 

“Go easy on that stuff,” Tim tells him. He watches an elderly couple stop and point at the damage done to the front of Tim’s building and his own blacked-out window. “Who knows. We might be seeing more of your friends.”

Jimmy finishes his latest beer and says, “I know how to shoot.”

Tim snorts.

“I shot that Crowe, didn’t I?” 

“I _guess,_ ” Tim allows, and has to remind himself that he’s a mite particular about what constitutes shooting. He can’t argue Jimmy didn’t get the deed done, gut-shot or not.

“It wasn’t my first,” Jimmy admits, matter-of-fact.

“Think real hard about what you’re prepared to tell me,” Tim says. Maybe, after getting drunk and comfortable in Tim’s company, Jimmy’s forgotten their respective ranks. If he’s just plain stupid, Tim can’t stop him from confessing to murder.

Jimmy stares hard at Tim, certain he’s not risking his freedom by talking, but willing to give Tim this one, more or less. 

“I’ve shot… _at_ people before. Been ready to shoot. _A lot of that._ Uhm. Shot a coyote once.” He doesn’t look particularly proud of that last one. “Guess you’ve shot a lot of people.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees.

“Killed many?”

“About as many as I’ve shot.” 

“Boyd didn’t kill people in Iraq.” Jimmy snorts at his own error, corrects, “Well, no, he blew some up.”

Tim wills himself to keep a cool head, hoping against hope that maybe Jimmy will talk himself sick of Boyd Crowder. “That’ll do it.”

“But in Harlan,” Jimmy speaks now with a heaviness that allows his words to sink into Tim, even at a distance. “S’when he first killed a man. Face to face, you know. Like men do.” 

“Deputy Brooks’ll shoot a fella in the face, no problem.” 

Tim’s lost track of what it is he doesn’t want to hear. He wants evidence against Boyd, not Jimmy, but can’t stand to hear the way in which Jimmy reveres him. 

It takes Tim a moment, but when he touches on what is truly bothering him about this line of conversation, he can’t hold back: “Hey. Unless you wanna start a list of names and dates, people Boyd Crowder has dropped, how about you shut up about him? Seriously.” Tim turns completely around, abandoning the window for the first time in hours. “Fuck me. It’s like hearing about an ex. Fuck, no. It's worse. It's like listening to _Raylan._ "

“You know that it ain’t,” Jimmy huffs. In any other instance, he’d have more to say about Tim maligning Boyd like this. But Tim’s comment is a welcome one, now that Jimmy can parlay it into something he’s been deeply curious about for days: “You got any exes?”

“None I’d talk about like that.”

Tim watches as Jimmy blushes, gets embarrassed, gets angry. He finds a perverse joy in it; Jimmy’s disillusionment with Tim is long overdue, and Tim wants to revel in the muck.

He has to remind himself, however, that the length of Jimmy’s stay is open-ended. Even if the morning’s shootout gets them both out of Tim’s apartment, there’s more for Tim to consider than his own snappy one-liners. There’s the case--what’s left of it--and Jimmy’s continued cooperation.

There’s also the unexpected pang of guilt Tim feels for shaming Jimmy about his adulation of Boyd. 

To pacify him, Tim says: “Exes, huh? Well there was Jack, ‘til about a day ago. Oscar before him. Noel had a big dick. Richard Johnson didn’t, funnily enough. Jeff who had a kid, that was weird. Michael. Lotta guys I never asked their names. My slutty phase, I guess.” Tim’s smile tightens, disappears, but he keeps his tone light. “Higgins, during the war. Pete, before it. Some others I’d rather forget.”

Given the extent of Tim’s list, Jimmy looks a little awed, a little saddened. “You went through all that, no one knowin’ nothin’?”

He’s slurring now, but Tim gets his meaning. He steps around the question, nonetheless. “I’m older than you, remember?”

“When’d you start, though.”

“It ain’t a race,” Tim tells him, trying for gentle but hearing something more akin to cool coloring his voice. He wants to rid Jimmy of his obsession over lost time, but being an impatient young man isn’t exactly unknown to Tim, either. He understands what Jimmy thinks he’s already lost by virtue of letting it pass him by. 

Jimmy’s still looking at him, youthful face drawn hard and expectant, so Tim answers: “Seventeen.” 

“ _Ha,_ ” Jimmy says, humorlessly. “Fifteen, for me. With a girl, though.”

“Girls count.” 

“You’re just being nice to me,” Jimmy objects. Something warms in him--maybe the alcohol--and his unease is settled. He smiles wide, teeth and all. “I like when you’re nice to me. You’re kind of a dick, otherwise.”

Tim smirks at that. Jimmy’s not wrong. 

Tim turns to the window again, then back. He looks upon Jimmy with a studious kind of intent--not at all the look he gives his targets--and says his piece.

“If it starts to sound like I don’t know we’re on the same side,” Tim tells him, sure and slow, “Just remember that I’ve had my back to you all day, my sidearm in the other room.” His lips press together like he thinks he’s just given away his position, but he continues: “I don’t always say what I mean, but,” he nods, “There’s that.”

Jimmy’s expression turns humbled. The smile is still there, spread across his face, crinkling his eyes and smoothing his brow, but the joy is turned inward, now. It’s a smile for Jimmy himself. He nods, just once, accepting Tim’s word as gospel. 

He waits for Tim to return his focus out the window before saying--and enjoying the confidence in his own voice as he does--“If I were to suck your dick right now, would that throw off your aim?”

Tim grins, and says before he can stop himself, “You know, I get that line more often than you’d think.”

“It’s a serious question.”

“I’m giving it some serious thought.”

The light is warm on his face, even if the day is growing cooler. He doesn’t spare a moment to consider what to do about his window. He can see himself in a week, a month from now re-applying tape to a new garbage bag to hide the damage. One thing at a time. If more killers come to call, Tim doesn't want to lose an entire month's paycheck to the multiple, necessary repairs.

As a nondescript black vehicle wheels into the lot, Tim thinks he’s right to postpone a return to normalcy. 

“We got a live one,” he announces to Jimmy while taking up his rifle. The driver exits, and Tim recognizes the stride before he even gets to the face. He draws away from the window. "Shit. My boss. Clean yourself up, you hear me?" 

Jimmy frowns. "I'm clean--"

"Brush your teeth,” Tim specifies, and inadvertently gives Jimmy a little too much insight to his dealings with Art. Wishing he could take the comment back, but knowing his only viable option is to bury it, Tim adds, “You got a boner? Lose it." 

For whichever task, Jimmy disappears into the bathroom.

From the parking lot, Art sees Tim at the window, waves once. He’s in Tim’s apartment not a minute later, a large brown paperbag in tow. It sets it down as soon as he steps into the apartment, and his right hand goes to his side, hovers around his jacket where he keeps his sidearm secured. 

"All clear?"

"So far." 

The hand lowers itself. Jimmy appears then, leaving the bathroom with minty-fresh breath. He bumps into the couch on his way to the laundry room-- _“Still okay that I--?”_ \--and Tim waves him along. 

Art raises an eyebrow. "What's wrong with him?"

"TV got caught up in the exchange. I'm letting him drink. Only seems fair." 

“You’re a kind gatekeeper.”

“I try.” 

It's all the pleasantries either man can think to issue. Art looks around, sees the empties on the coffee table and through Tim's bedroom door, the unmade bed. If he's looking for clues, Tim imagines he's found the motherload. 

“I don't know if you're laughing at me over this--" Tim stops, then reasserts himself: "I want to be out looking for Crowder, same as everybody else." 

Art walks the length of Tim’s apartment, speaking as he does. “From what I hear, you may yet spy him from your window.”

Tim stands rooted on the spot. He won’t be made to follow Art around, pleading his case. “That’s only if Raylan drives him by in a paddy wagon.” 

“You’re right, it ain’t on the parade route.” Art smiles and tries to share that with Tim, but his Deputy’s expression remains blank. “Listen, Tim--”

In Art's hesitation to continue, Tim realizes he's afraid of what his boss might have to say. He thinks the worst of the paperbag--maybe Art has taken the liberty of cleaning out his desk and work locker. Maybe he's not carrying a sidearm close to his chest, but transfer papers. 

Tim thinks about taking the steps necessary to close in on Art, but decides not to. He can make his point from a distance, with the voice to carry it. 

"Did you not believe me when I said he was gonna hold it against me and the office, what we did," Tim wets his lips and steadies his gaze, "Or did you not care?"

Art sighs, dismayed with what this case has wrought--both professionally and personally. He draws a hand over his bald head, then tells Tim plainly, "If I thought this kid had you over a barrel, Tim, then I’ve _seriously_ misjudged you.”

Tim registers the unexpected apology, but is even more surprised to hear it continue. 

"You weren't wrong," Art tells him. "Equating," he nods in the direction of the laundry room, where Jimmy’s at, pretending he can’t hear every damn word that’s being said, "with what Raylan does, time to time." 

It's progress, Tim tells himself. Even if the admission only gets him on par with Raylan's shenanigans, it's still a step ahead from where he's been.

Jokingly, Art adds, "I'm starting to think it's my fault. Am I encouraging this behavior?"

"You still got Rachel. Reputation pure as the driven snow."

Art's expression twists in amusement. "You'd be surprised." 

“Shit,” Tim’s eyebrows shoot up. “I am.”

“Not as such,” Art corrects hastily. There are enough rumors about Rachel by virtue of her being a better Marshal than most of her male colleagues, with bigger balls than any of them. Art doesn’t want to contribute a single syllable to the shit spread over her good name, but he can’t deny she’s pushed limits to get results. He says as much, in a roundabout way.

Tim nods, lets Art get away with a non-explanation. He’s sure as shit going to get _that_ story out of Rachel over burgers and beer at his earliest opportunity. 

Pushing back a little, himself, Tim teases, “So really, you should have been expecting this.”

“Tim, I was not expecting _this._ ”

Tim fans out his hands comically, but the gesture reads as lackluster. “Surprise.”

The expression on Art’s face says it all. Like Tim has let him down, somehow, by being this way or lying about it. To save the moment from being completely maudlin, Tim doesn’t say what’s on his mind--a clipped, _You weren't supposed to know. I'm sorry that you do._ It’ll only serve to corner Art into saying something prematurely. Tim worries he’ll know if Art doesn’t mean it.

Their meeting is over. They both know it. It’s a toss-up between parting without another word, or awaiting some colossal, apocalyptic rift to tear them separately out of time and space itself. 

Art chooses the latter.

He shakes Tim’s hand--literally something that has happened only once before in the few short years the men have known one another. 

“Okay.”

Tim isn’t sure which of them says it. 

Art cracks first, spitting his absurd laughter all over the moment’s tightly-held silence. “Well, shit, Tim. What do you want from me?” 

Tim shrugs. “Call me Sport and show up at my Little League games?”

Art pretends to the consider the offer. “It’s got to be one or the other.”

“Ah, forget it. Kind of a package deal.” Tim’s grin thins into a narrow line, and his eyes set on Art’s. “Let me come back to work?”

Even if it’s only this--joking and jockeying for an answer under the guise of nonsense and non sequiturs--Tim thinks they can manage. He’ll assuage Art’s discomfort at the expense of his own pride, so long as it _works._

“Get that window fixed,” Art tells him, a stipulation. “Before you do.”

Tim nods. His mind skips back to Florida, and like a record he plays through the dulcet tones of the few shots of Jimmy’s that actually landed in Dilly Crowe. This tentative deal with Art is a gut-shot, in its way.

Tim _feels_ like he’s swallowed a fistful of lead, anyway. 

Art’s crossed the room again, is back at the front door. He’s gesturing to the brown paperbag and Tim has to make a conscious effort of listening. 

“That’s from Leslie. I don’t know if it’s a pipebomb or an ice sculpture, she about had a fit when I was putting it in the car wrong.” 

There’s another moment of stretched silence between them. 

“Thanks, Art,” Tim says, still nodding. 

Art pretends to go for another handshake, grins a little too wide, then leaves. 

In the bag, Tim finds a veritable feast, and a note from Leslie sweet enough to make him lose his appetite. Apparently, Art didn’t tell her anything beyond the basics-- _”Tim’s gay, apparently”_ \--because she writes to only answer for her husband’s bullheaded ways. Tim suspects the note wouldn’t start with _Sweetheart_ followed by three exclamation points if she knew about the whole _slept with a CI_ angle. 

Or maybe it would. Tim always thought Leslie had a better sense of humor than Art. 

In pastel-colored tupperware containers she’d packed thinly-sliced brisket, gooey macaroni and cheese, thick squares of cornbread, coleslaw, and an entire peach cobbler. It’s a home cooked, southern spread worthy of the glossy pages of a magazine. 

Tim pockets the note and then calls Jimmy back into the living room with a sardonic, _“All clear.”_

“I was listening,” Jimmy tells him right off the bat. “Caught every word, didn’t follow a single one of ‘em. You play baseball?”

He’s trying to be funny, but Tim thinks he understands what he heard--slow, grating tones and all--even if he claims otherwise. Tim smiles, anyway, and tells Jimmy to help himself. Tim takes his meal at the window. 

Some time later, Jimmy secures the leftovers in the fridge--Ava would have his hide if he let a woman’s homecooking spoil--then joins Tim on the living room floor. 

“I know you didn’t ask,” Tim says, not turning to face Jimmy, “But you’ve got blanket couch privileges.” 

Jimmy presses a bowl of peach cobbler into Tim’s idle hands. Then he lingers, like he doesn’t trust Tim to know his way around a hot cobbler without supervision. 

“Holy shit,” Jimmy says, and Tim’s first instinct is to take up his rifle. But Jimmy’s laughing in warm breaths at the back of his neck, producing for Tim a strange feeling of comfort he’s not long been privy to. He thinks of himself and Mark--a lifetime ago--huddling for warmth, sharing ragged clouds of breath from chapped lips. 

“Holy shit what?” Tim hates the way he sounds--like there’s something somewhere he can’t foresee. He searches the street, intent on finding a mark, any mark. 

Jimmy laughs again, softer now than before. “You got freckles.” 

Jimmy hooks a finger at the throat of Tim’s t-shirt, tugging it back slowly to reveal a faint spread of spots across Tim's shoulders. 

Tim wants to tell him they’re about as natural as his tattoos--just another souvenir from overexposure in the desert. As Tim opens his mouth to say so, Jimmy’s other hand starts snaking up under his shirt, spread open-palm across his flesh. Tim decides right there that he likes the idea of Jimmy liking something plainly natural about him, even if it's anything but. 

“Uh-huh. You like freckles?”

Jimmy draws in a long breath through his nose, then turns his chin upwards, contemplative. “Nope,” he answers simply. “I like you, though.”

“Despite the freckles.” Tim feels his focus on the street outside his apartment building waver as Jimmy fits another hand under Tim’s shirt, and starts undressing him. 

Jimmy’s wide grin reaches his eyes. “I go back and forth on it.”

\- 

Tim pays extra to have the repairs on the window done by the following morning. In the early afternoon, Rachel stops by in what she indicates is Tim's replacement vehicle, and together they return to the courthouse offices. 

Jimmy sits in the center backseat with his duffle resting on his lap. As far as Tim knows, Jimmy is still unaware of the missing cell phone--and likelier still, its entire existence. He stares out the tinted windows, getting a better feel for where Tim lives in relation to the rest of the city. He seems reticent to speak, which is a great departure from his behavior the night before: peppering Tim with questions about what comes next and, without explicitly saying so, where it all leaves him. 

They had gone to bed together again, got off on one another’s touch and taste. Unlike before, Jimmy held tight to Tim’s narrow hips, took him in his mouth, and carried him to completion. Tim wouldn't swear on a stack of Bibles that it was the _best_ blowjob he'd ever received, but he'd be damned if it wasn't given like a gift, wrapped in the sweetest package.

Tim's hesitant to start up a conversation while the memory is still so fresh. He thinks if Jimmy so much as wets his lips the wrong way between words, he'll lose all composure. Be that as it may, Tim can't very well bound and gag Jimmy for the duration of the drive.

That'd just saddle him with a whole _mess_ of other problems. 

Jimmy asks about progress on the case and Rachel--who looks like she’s had less sleep than Tim these past few days--snaps, “It’s not really a progression though, is it? Hit or miss. We pin Boyd Crowder down or we keep looking like incompetent assholes with an equally incompetent CI.”

With that final dig, Jimmy looks appropriately smarted. Tim can spy him from the rearview mirror, looking like his ballsack has been put on ice.

"Where's Raylan?" Tim asks, showing Jimmy how to best ask about a catastrophe: inquire after the moving pieces, not the stagnant whole. 

With just a touch of residual frustration coloring her voice, Rachel answers, “Following up a possible sighting in Wyoming.”

Tim’s surprised. Per their earlier conversations, he’d have thought Raylan was still in Harlan, combing every coal-stripped hill and dank mine for their missing outlaw. “Like, Wyoming-Wyoming? Not Wyoming, Michigan?”

Rachel sighs, “Would that make much of a difference?”

“‘Bout a thousand miles.” Rachel’s not in the mood for jokes and doesn’t reply. Tim continues, thoughtful, “Huh. How long ago was that?”

"This morning. His flight'll touch down soon."

“It look good?” Tim asks, doubtful given the stretch of time. In the same breath, maybe it’s all they’ve got--and _that’s_ good enough.

Rachel’s expression seems to denote the latter option. “We'll see.”

Tim nods, keeps his eyes on the road. “You want me on the phones, verifying sightings?”

“Please,” Rachel says, and they both hear the apology it’s intended to be. Manning the tip line is a shitty post, but Tim doesn’t have the leeway to complain. “We’re still fielding a lot of calls inside Kentucky. We go, we check ‘em out, we’re lucky if it’s not just a prank call.” 

Because he hasn’t learned his lesson, Jimmy again pipes up from behind: “Can I help?” 

"Yes, actually," Rachel surprises them both by answering promptly, "You will."

\- 

When the secret cell phone is revealed to Jimmy, and the Marshals make clear their desired use for it, Jimmy doesn't hesitate. He looks at Tim immediately, starts to deny any knowledge of the thing. 

They're all gathered in Art's office--Art, Rachel, Tim, Jimmy, and a youthful IT expert who is trying valiantly to mind his own business and rig up the tracer as quickly as possible--so Jimmy's pleading look is displayed for quite the audience. Tim, who's perched on the corner of Art's desk, holds up a dismissive hand. 

"Doesn't matter." 

Tim sees a whole host of things playing out across Jimmy's face: understanding for the cold reception the other morning, embarrassment for playing the unwitting mule, and even a twinge of anger at Tim for withholding his findings so long. 

Rachel starts to explain what they want from Jimmy now, but his focus remains trained on Tim. Like he's hurt and concerned that Tim might not believe him, Jimmy continues, "I swear."

Perhaps a little too harshly, Tim orders, "Don't look at me, look at her. _Listen_ to her." 

It echoes throughout the office like a slap in the face. Quickly stepping in to fill the silence, Rachel again makes it clear what they want: a trace on the call.

"You haven't tried calling him?" Jimmy asks. His tone is downright sarcastic, and Tim harbors a strange responsibility for that. He gets the absurd feeling everyone in the room knows he didn't take the time to prepare Jimmy for this meeting because, instead, he'd deemed it more pertinent to finger Jimmy's asshole than explain his continued role with the Marshal Service. 

It's Art, interestingly enough, who gracefully salvages the request. 

"Funny thing about tracing a call--it only works if he answers it. We figure maybe Crowder will recognize the number to your burner." 

"Which I didn't know about, by the way."

"Son," Art starts in, and Rachel and Tim immediately share a look. Art has daughters; anyone he calls _son_ is already on his shit list. "You need to understand something. Right now, this piece of shit phone is worth more to me _as a paperweight_ than you are as a CI. Everything you've done before this means _nothing_ if we don't have Boyd Crowder here to answer for it."

Art pauses a moment, lets all that sink in, and then hands Jimmy the phone. It's tethered with a long cord to a small laptop. "You make the call. Tell him the truth, lie through your teeth, ask after a recipe for rhubarb pie, _I don't give a hot shit._ Just get him talking." 

Jimmy makes the call.

“Boyd,” Jimmy leaps the second the dial tone fades and the call connects. His voice suddenly sounds ragged and small. “I ain’t talking. I found the phone, they don't know I got it. I'm not talking." There's nothing said back to his stream of lies, and Jimmy fears he's lost the connection. "What do you want me to do, Boyd?"

He's asked this very question a thousand times, and every time, Boyd's been quick with an answer. And whatever the order, Jimmy has always complied. 

Boyd's response isn't quick. It's slow, then builds into something deafening. 

“Jimmy," he croons. The Marshals can hear his responses from the computer speakers. "Jimmy, Jimmy, _Jimmy._ ” Each utterance of the young man’s name wraps around itself like a silken noose. “Did you come up with this all on your own, or are the Marshals there, breathing down your neck, spelling out for you what they think I’d give a solitary shit to hear you say?”

Amidst every revolving question Boyd's fit into his reply, Jimmy doesn't waver. He remains wholly sincere in his objections. Tim doesn't think this is an advertisement of Jimmy's capacity to lie so much as his entirely real desire for Boyd to forgive him. It doesn't matter that Boyd knows better than to believe him--Jimmy is compelled to try and resurrect his name. “I’m alone, Boyd. I found--”

“I know you found the phone, dipshit, that’s how I found you.” 

Tim watches Jimmy’s face as he registers that fact. It’s as though he’s been living in complete denial that the shots fired in through Tim’s window were truly meant for him, and not a simple random act of violence--the likes of which he’s become so accustomed to in Boyd’s employ. He looks devastated that his intended end was threaded through Boyd Crowder at every turn.

Boyd continues, his tone pressed with displeasure, “Thought they’d set you up in a safehouse someplace, Marshals posted at every exit. But you did me one better, friend.” Boyd laughs. It's a hollowed-out sound, like wind passing through a crack in the walls. "Is he there? Why don’t you put Deputy Gutterson on the line, Jimmy. Or is his mouth full?”

Jimmy’s eyes turn downcast. "Boyd--"

"You'd betray me for something as pedestrian as _cock._ Christ Almighty, Jimmy. I could have gotten you _cock._ " Boyd sighs, like this entire dilemma could have been avoided with a little honesty. It’s the insidious kind of baited lie Boyd knows Jimmy longs to believe, so he runs with it. "You could have said something. I'd have given you his, right there. Had it stuffed and mounted for you, too."

Tim’s grinning through the whole exchange, and not just because he finds Boyd’s menace amusing. He has to. If Jimmy looks to him again, Tim needs him to know that Boyd’s outdated, comically villainous threats don’t mean shit. 

But Jimmy doesn’t look to Tim for assurance. He’s too wrapped up in Boyd’s world again, and all it takes was for Boyd to answer his call. Tim gets a sinking feeling in his gut; this was precisely Boyd’s message. 

Like he knows he’s arguing with a master wordsmith, Jimmy’s voice is soft when he counters simply, "You were laughing, though. It was a joke to you. Keep it in your back pocket--you said that."

"Because it's something you use against a man, Jimmy." Boyd tells it like the cold truth that it is. As much as Tim doesn’t want to be the topic of conversation, he’s at least relieved he doesn’t have to explain himself to Art any further, now that Boyd’s own motivations are apparent. 

Boyd continues in a tone that’s now razor-sharp, "Like you'd use stupidity and a trusting nature against a _boy._ " 

It’s his final thought on Jimmy, his once trusted friend. 

"I'm sorry, Boyd," Jimmy pleads quietly, sounding for all the world like he’s already withdrawn from not only the conversation, but any semblance of all that _self-worth_ Tim had taken to teasing him about. "I'm sorry. I can still help.”

“Sure you can,” Boyd agrees. The spark of light it brights into Jimmy’s eyes is almost too much to bear. “You can stand real still, make it easy for my boys to put a bullet in you.” Boyd’s threat sounds like heavy industry. There’s product Boyd can point to, assure his listeners of his talent and skill. He’s made for this kind of work. 

He finishes, "Our two minutes are almost up. Hope you had a right fine last meal, Jimmy."

The line goes dead, and everybody feels its loss. 

"I don't think that helped," Jimmy observes numbly, and passes off the phone to the first hand that comes for it. 

“That two-minute retainer is just Hollywood movie bullshit, right?” Art asks of their IT professional, who grimaces. 

“Not... really.”

“You did good,” Tim says to Jimmy, and squeezes his shoulder before hastily exiting the office with Rachel in tow. He hisses, _“What the fuck.”_

It’s the _last meal_ line that’s stuck with him, thrown him over the edge he’s been balancing on since returning to Kentucky with a fistful of nothing, Crowder grinning and riding shotgun with Raylan. 

Rachel tries to convince Tim it's an entirely innocuous thing to say, that if Tim hasn't seen anyone skulking around his building, it means no one is there. 

She watches him a moment, lets her words of reason sink in, then smacks him hard on the arm.

 _“‘You did good?’”_ She repeats. “He didn’t just lose a spelling bee, Tim.”

“I think _great_ would have over-sold it, though,” Tim says while rubbing his arm. “Ow, by the way. You put your rings on for that?”

Tim’s desk phone rings and he finds he has an out. 

“Phone,” Tim announces. “Gotta get the phone. Could be Crowder, calling us back.”

The call proves fruitful, because Tim goes to check out a possible sighting outside a bank in Frankfurt. The next few days are more of the same--calls that lead nowhere, tips from crackheads in Harlan Boyd hasn't done business with in months. Rachel continues to coordinate with other offices, as their search encroaches the Midwest and beyond. Art's slowly being drawn back into regular business of running the office, and there's a feel about the place that something has died here and turned to rot. Raylan continues to jetset, checking in with only the same tired mantra: _I'm close. This time, I know it._

Tim, meanwhile, is wired. He's away from his desk at every opportunity, sifting through rumors, following Boyd's shadow, then back again to collect Jimmy for the evenings. He's certain that Boyd--or more likely, his people--are staking Jimmy out, but the intel simply doesn't support his suspicions. 

"The only one sticking close to him is you," he's told, sort of smugly by one of the more senior Marshals on the same grinding detail. 

He's somewhere around Harlan, flashing his badge with Nelson in tow on the Tuesday afternoon Rachel's attention settles on Jimmy, and doesn't immediately drift elsewhere. He's become a kind of fixture, sat in a chair adjacent to Tim’s desk. He answers the occasional question-- _"Boyd ever have business in Bedford?" "Does_ anyone _have business in fucking Bedford?"_ \--but mostly he's quiet. Presently, Jimmy's about a third of the way through a weathered copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy. 

Occasionally, he draws a hand through his hair, explores the uneven lengths as the fates of Hobbits fail to hold his attention. Rachel approaches him, then drops into Tim's desk chair, goes for a spin. 

He's startled, so Rachel smiles and tries to put him at ease. “Tim’s rubbing off on you, huh?”

“Excuse me?” Jimmy balks. They haven't done anything fun in _days._

“The book," Rachel specifies with a wry smile that pinches the corners of her mouth. "It’s not yours.”

Jimmy sinks deep into his chair, then shuts the book with as much of a snap as the yellowed pages will allow. “Why do all you assholes think I can't fucking _read?_ ” he snaps before he can think better of it. He recovers quickly, amending, “Sorry, ma’am. Deputy.”

Rachel looks at her watch, then back at Jimmy. He's given her the kind of lip she's learned better than to tolerate more than once, but something tells her he won't make that mistake a second time. He messes with his hair again, like he thinks he can make his hillbilly-Eurotrash fusion style look presentable with just a few swipes of his hand. It's endearing how wrong he is. 

“You hungry?” 

She takes him to a little cafe near the courthouse, and tells him along the way that if he runs, she'll catch him.

He shakes his head and asks with genuine interest, "Where am I gonna go?" 

They walk the few blocks in silence, after that. It's getting colder, but at least the sun's out. Rachel's comfortable in her blazer and sensible scarf. Jimmy, she thinks, must live in that lambskin jacket of his.

The restaurant is pretty in a way Jimmy thinks Ava would appreciate. It's all soft colors and shiny hardwoods. It's got a wall of train-themed board games and porcelain figures so precariously placed that Jimmy doubts anyone has even dared to disturb them. Rachel chooses a booth without a view, which Jimmy is used to by now.

Jimmy swallows down half a glass of water, then takes up the menu.

“Ma’am,” Jimmy starts, his voice no greater than a whisper, “I know I said I could read, but--"

She smiles wide. “They gave you the wrong menu,” she says. “They like to do that. Near about bowled over this 90-pound sorority sister first time I came here. Yes, tiny child, I speak French.” 

Not knowing what else to do, Jimmy nods in agreement, as if to vehemently state, _Oh, yeah. Who hasn't been there?_

Rachel, still having fun with the kid, puts a hand over her heart, feigning romantic intent. “The croque-monsieur, though," she sighs, "Is worth the air of entitlement.”

“Sure,” Jimmy says, not quite there but willing to hazard a melty ham sandwich to see. He shrugs, adding, “I speak Spanish.”

“So Deputy Gutterson tells me.”

Rachel places their orders before Jimmy is able to amass the courage to ask, “Is he mad? Because the phone call didn’t work?”

Rachel suspects such a dated question means Tim never apologized for his behavior that day. She waves a hand. “The phone call was my idea. It was a long shot, and I appreciate you trying your best.” 

Jimmy stares hard at the table between them, refusing to accept the Deputy's kind words. “I fucked it up.” 

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Honey, we let Boyd Crowder walk right out of our courthouse. You wanna talk fucking up…” 

“I wanna talk about Tim,” Jimmy blurts out. “To Tim--talk _to_ Tim. About… Tim.”

“His least favorite subject,” Rachel observes. “Good luck.”

As often as Raylan likes to joke that he and Tim go to her to talk--and while Raylan doesn’t seem to recognize it, he takes her up on that offer _a lot_ \--Rachel can count on one hand the serious conversations she’s had with Tim about the work they do. It was the last time that sticks with her--when she’d tracked him down at a bar, gotten him to scribble his signature on a form, and quietly observed that his hands were shaking. 

_“I feel bad about it,”_ he’d snapped. _“All of it. So you can stop looking at me like you’d sooner shit yourself than ask.”_

He’d brought her a coffee the next morning and apologized--two separate efforts, he made that clear. 

Apology accepted, she’d asked, _“What’s the coffee for, then?”_

He’d explained he was still hungover and shouldn’t make the drive to Tramble for the prisoner transport he was scheduled to make.

_“Didn’t you drive to work?”_

_“I did. That’s when I realized I shouldn’t be.”_

It didn’t happen again--Tim reacting that way after a shooting or telling Rachel about it, one or the other. They became ambivalent towards serious conversations, and while Rachel still wonders if that was her decision or if she took Tim’s lead, she sees now in Jimmy that he doesn’t suffer their silent affliction.

He seems hesitant to start, but eventually gets there--to his unhappy truth. “I don’t think he wants me at his apartment anymore. I don’t know who I’m supposed to talk to about that.”

Jimmy disappears his napkin from the table, holds it in his grip like a hostage.

“Things are starting to calm down. We’ll put you up in a hotel,” Rachel promises, although she’s admittedly surprised. Jimmy seems to be all sweet smiles hovering over Tim’s desk most days. 

Jimmy nods, but his eyes drift, unfocused, like he’s following a new conversation. He backtracks, saying, “It’s fine if you can’t. He’s got a couch.” Jimmy starts to take a drink of water when he realizes his error. “ _The_ couch. That I’ve been sleeping on. Very… very comfortably.”

Rachel feels a genuine surge of sympathy--the only way that Jimmy is this terrible a liar is if he’s never let the truth come so close to the surface. "Mr. Tolan--can I call you Jimmy?"

Jimmy shrugs, nods. 

"Jimmy. If you don't want to stay with Tim, or if you don't want him as part of your security detail, now's the time to say something." Rachel waits a beat before adding the obvious: "And you can talk to me." 

Jimmy starts shaking his head halfway through her response. 

“It ain’t like that,” he smiles awkwardly, like Rachel’s told him a joke he doesn’t quite understand. His large paper napkin appears on the table again, now twisted into an anxious cyclone. "I don’t want him to get sick of me, is all.”

Rachel parts her lips, intending to press Jimmy on that thought, but thinks better of it. It’s a conversation, she knows, for Tim to lead. She can’t dispel Jimmy’s lofty notions on Tim’s behalf, like she might if she was talking to a CI of Raylan’s. Tim doesn’t have a history of this for her to look back on and act accordingly.

But she has to say _something._ "The U.S. Marshal Service won't leave you in a bind. When we get Crowder and take this to trial, you'll do your part and then... WITSEC, if there's a need." 

Jimmy’s face splits into a grin. It’s off-putting in the sense that Rachel doesn’t see many in Jimmy’s position finding reason to smile. It does suit him, which again Rachel realizes is a strange observation--but then, she doesn’t know many men who take to joy. At least among those she knows best, they take too much and sully it, or deny its presence completely.

Jimmy’s expression stands opposed to his explanation: "Fella who snitched on Boyd, got him stuck on his first stretch of prison, he was in WITSEC. They sent him all the way to Oregon. He lived in one of those duplex houses."

Rachel frowns. "How do you know that?"

Jimmy shreds his napkin and answers plainly, "Because Boyd found him." 

Their meals arrive, hot and crispy and with a fat pickle on the side. 

"Well," Rachel says with a cheeriness she dons for only their most hopeless cases, "We're going to find Boyd. Now, eat your damn sandwich and tell me it's not in the top ten, best things you've ever eaten. Come on. I'll fight you, skinny.” 

\- 

When Rachel and Jimmy return to the courthouse, they've hardly got a foot in the door apiece before Tim accosts them with questions. 

"The hell have you been?" He's got Rachel's desk phone pressed to his ear, and is texting on his cell. "Raylan's gonna want another flight. He call you yet?"

"No, he hasn't-- _what is going on?_ " 

"Canadians found Crowder."

Tim spits his response like he's got a mouthful of venom, and Rachel can't tell which Tim despises more--Boyd Crowder, or the fact that the Marshals weren't the ones to collar him. 

Rachel feels the room take on presence of a church--or anyplace, really, where prayers are expected to be answered, but never seem to go beyond a simple hearing. She’s so surprised by the news she can hardly snap her lips into formation and ask, "Where?"

"Outskirts of Banff, in a truck. And about two yards outside of it." Tim glances up from where he’s scribbling something on a pad of paper--Rachel’s always good for a pad of paper--and sees Jimmy looking all the wrong kinds of hopeful. "He's dead."

\- 

They get photos from the Calgary Police Service, as well as a local morgue. Even with the broken bones and shredded torso, it's Boyd Crowder, and everyone in the Kentucky office is certain of that fact hours before Raylan is. Decidedly unsatisfied with the confirmation from dental records ("He got those damn things in the Army. An entire fucking platoon probably got the same set."), Raylan is on the first available flight to Calgary, where he will personally identify the body. 

Crowder hit a deer, of all things. A deer, where for miles along the densely wooded area between Banff and Calgary, there are barriers protecting drivers from wildlife, and vice versa. 

Tim wants to believe it's divine providence, or at the very least ironic. That Boyd would strike what Tim himself had hallucinated in his presence and under his chemically-augmented influence is, if nothing else, _appropriate._ But he knows it's truly just odds feeding into chance, and nothing at all touched by cosmic justice. Boyd ran a little too far, a little too fast, and that combination finally proved deadly. 

But there's no celebration to be had among the Marshals. Along with ripped flesh and collapsed metal, there is cash. To some degree, Boyd had won-- _was winning._ A whole briefcase full of green-faced success, thrown open, fluttering into the road and surrounding woods, sticking into snow-laden tree branches. _Money growing on trees_ \--it’s another thing that might have saved Crowder from this end, if he’d found it sooner.

From there, it's just a matter of retracing his steps. Security footage from where he acquired the car led Canadian police to a drug ring based in Calgary--a familiar cast of characters, and the denser among them detailed enough that a clearer picture came together. 

The Canadians had a falling out with Mexico--some blackmarket NAFTA bullshit gone awry--and in order to maintain their access to cheap Mexican product, needed a go-between. It wasn’t an easy task, finding someone willing to accept the job, first of all, as well as seeing it through. They agreed to pay Boyd to make the purchase from the Mexican cartel, move it to Florida where it would be imparted to a team of their own, and in turn reward Boyd for his troubles. 

Boyd’s business was never with the Crowes, strictly speaking; it came to him in a moment of clarity--why not make the money twice over? Ensure Ava’s conformable stay in prison, and buy her the castle she deserved upon her release? 

Boyd hired the Crowes to do the dirty work of offing their Canadian expat neighbors in the Florida bayou, after they contacted their leadership and--under threat of death--confirmed the trade was made without incident, and Boyd had earned his fee. The call was made the morning Boyd met with the Crowes.

The cocaine profits were lost with the arrival of the Marshals, but Boyd could still salvage his promised earnings. All he had to do was make himself available--in person--to his Canadian employers. Seeing his chance in an overcrowded courthouse, he slipped away and did just that.

It wasn’t a terrible plan, all in all. 

Jimmy swears not to have known a lick of it outside the obvious--getting cocaine out of Mexico and the profits into Harlan. He says this a hundred times over, like he’s sorry Boyd didn’t just _tell him,_ and let him help. 

Tim spends a long time studying the photos from both the collision and recovery. He turns his computer screen slightly, so that Jimmy--who is still sat in a chair by the copier machine, hunched and saddened and alone--can't see Tim's inherent interest. The images are grotesque--Tim will give Boyd that much. Messy, like even in death the outlaw wanted to make this process a difficult one to stomach. As surely as he'd hide his atrocities in slurry, or escape clear across the continent, he'd bury himself in crystallized blood and backbreaking rigor mortis. His lips--now frozen and tinged blue underneath a slathering of red--are slightly open. Boyd went spinning phrases well into the afterlife.

Even with the availability of the images, Tim finds he wishes he was with Raylan, crammed into a tin can of a plane and on his way to seeing for himself the death mask Boyd finally donned--his last, after a long series of faces that never quite fit: the prophet, the Nazi, the intrepid entrepreneur.

Near the end of the workday, Jimmy unceremoniously rises from his corner, marches to Rachel's desk, and asks about his chances of getting a stay in a hotel, even if WITSEC is no longer a priority. 

Tim, who volunteers to stay late and coordinate with the Canadian police, doesn’t even see Rachel leave with Jimmy in tow. It’s almost an hour before he realizes his shadow is missing. To that end, Tim has other thoughts to keep him occupied: like the status of the case against Boyd, _without_ Boyd. As far as Tim figures it, the only people left standing with trafficked cocaine are Jimmy and Des. And Des hardly has the mental faculty needed to maneuver all the traffic of a _sidewalk._ Tim worries that means the bulk of the case might rest with Jimmy, who now has no one to inform on. 

If Raylan's hunt for Boyd is a compulsion, Tim decides his desire not to see Jimmy’s life entirely ruined is one, too. He tracks down Vasquez, who proves any vengeance he harbors was for Crowder alone.

(“Wherever the case stands, it’s not down on Jimmy Tolan’s neck,” Vasquez promises. “Satisfied? Can I return to my anniversary dinner with my wife, now?”)

It’s a start. 

And it’s another two days before Raylan returns on a plane transporting Boyd’s body, drug money in Raylan’s carry-on. His first stop is the evidence room in the basement of the courthouse--in part because he’s learned his lesson about evidence tampering several times over with Winona, but mostly because he wants nothing more than to bury every last trace of Boyd--ill-gotten gains and all. Raylan’s second stop is Tim’s apartment, where he hangs in the doorway long before knocking.

“I need a drink.”

It looks like he's had a few already, but Tim doesn't begrudge him his direct approach. He lets Raylan inside and has a glass of Jim Beam for him by the time Raylan is sat on his couch.

“Thought Jimmy would be here,” Raylan says, then accepts and downs the drink in one go. “Glad he ain’t.” Raylan gestures for more. “Where is he?”

“At a hotel,” Tim answers, and complies with Raylan’s not-so-subtle request. He wishes he’d thought this through--Raylan’s looking to drown his sorrows. Why waste the top shelf brands? Pouring his tears out into swill could only help the flavor. 

“At a hotel,” Raylan repeats, and to his credit he does only sip his next helping.

“Sure. Until nine, when he’s coming over here to... I don't know. Some metaphor for sucking my dick.” Jimmy had called some time ago, said he’d been granted use of a vehicle and wanted to come over. Tim didn’t ask--and still doesn’t care to know--why Jimmy decided to take up an alternative residence, anyway.

“Congratulations, I suppose.” Raylan crinkles his eyes like a smile might do, except he’s not in a smiling mood. “I still don’t trust him.”

“Me neither,” Tim admits coolly. “But you saw him. Poor shot.”

“That ain’t the worst a man can do.”

“Yeah, it is.” 

“No,” Raylan argues, and looks for a moment like he means to say more. He brings the glass of bourbon to his lips instead, and drinks steadily. Tim pours him another.

Tim studies Raylan and the strange, ragged place Raylan’s body seems to at once cultivate and occupy. His breaths are constantly cut short like he intends to speak, but he never fulfills that promise. What’s left instead is a void of half-chewed air, and Raylan’s sat right in the middle of it.

"How are things?" Tim asks, then awkwardly amends, like he even has to specify, "With you."

"Did I come here to talk or did I come here so you'd pour me drinks? That ain't a question, by the way. Smartass." 

Tim pours drinks, slides in a glass of water from time to time, and waits until Raylan decides to speak. He says exactly three things:

"Fuck."

"We dug…”

_“Fuck.”_

Raylan drinks some more. It’s a slow process. He’s somewhere else entirely, lost in thought or memory or wherever it is a man can go at the behest of a bottle. Tim knows Raylan would have gone to a bar if he wanted to be responsible, wanted someone to cut him off. He knows it’s Tim’s sickness or his nature not to deny him drink after drink.

And Tim performs admirably. 

When nine o’clock rolls around and Jimmy comes by, Raylan stands and readies for departure. He stares down Jimmy and again, Tim thinks there’s something building in him, something he wants heard. 

He bears it down, drowns it in the liquor sloshing in his gut. 

But Raylan’s never been one to appreciate silence, so he turns to Tim and says: “I don’t know whether this is cute or sad or--no, _it’s both._ He’s cute, and you’re sad.”

Tim drives him home. 

“I wanted to get him,” Raylan says after Tim takes the hotel key from him and lets Raylan inside his own place. “All this other bullshit,” Raylan waves a hand.

"He didn't get away," Tim tells him.

"He didn't get away for long,” Raylan corrects, then frowns. “It just don’t seem fair, you know?”

Tim disagrees, but nods anyway. “Yeah. Should have been you.”

He still doesn’t know that Raylan would have put him down, if given the chance. This way, Tim thinks, at least it’s done. He fills a parting glass of water for Raylan, and leaves without another word. 

Tim’s back in his apartment within the hour. When he enters, Jimmy stands from the couch, as if on ceremony.

"I love you," Jimmy blurts out, and for what it's worth Tim doesn't immediately roll his eyes. 

“For getting rid of Raylan?” Tim asks. Jimmy’s helped himself to a beer, so Tim helps himself to a swig. He intends to return it, but Jimmy suddenly pockets his hands and feeds him this bizarre _look._ Like he’s willing Tim to see something out of sight, but giving no indication where to turn. It finally registers with Tim that Jimmy is still clinging to his introduction, and that he came over to say precisely that and, more importantly, to be heard. But a declaration of love from his supposed Confidential Informant is not something Tim can hear.

“You don’t,” Tim corrects, and finishes the beer. He’s going to need another real quick if Jimmy keeps this up. Especially given the fact that Jimmy’s abandoned his jacket to reveal one of Tim’s borrowed shirts. This conversation goes any further south, though, Tim doesn’t expect to see it again.

“I do,” Jimmy insists, and suddenly he’s blushing. “I thought about--stuff. Things. At the hotel. And I could. Love you. I think… it’d be real easy.” 

It’s a quietly, generously given compliment. Tim hears it plainly, but doesn’t understand it. It’s a pricey gift and there’s no occasion for it. He gets frustrated that Jimmy’s pressing the issue, and embarrassed--which isn’t like him. 

“No,” Tim says simply, and starts to undo Jimmy’s belt and jeans. “If you like what we’re doing, you can’t spring that kind of bullshit on me.” 

Jimmy grabs Tim by both wrists, stalling him. “Spring--what? I thought you knew.” Tim realizes with a dull kind of finality that Jimmy isn’t confused or mistaken--he is very, terribly sure. “I just thought I should say it…” 

Tim sighs and relieves himself from Jimmy’s grip, goes to the fridge to get two beers. Jimmy doesn’t touch his. Tim wishes there was more light in his apartment. The dark of the space--he _still_ hasn’t replaced his TV--is too easily mistaken for romantic intent.

“We don’t need to love each other for this to be fun,” Tim tells him.

“Yeah, but we do if we want it to last.” Jimmy looks embarrassed to have to say it, but he reminds Tim anyway: “Those boyfriends you mentioned. You had a lot.”

“Did I say _boyfriend?_ ” Tim asks, knowing full well he had slipped and used it once, but not during their most recent discussion. He clings to the high ground, however unstable. _Boyfriend_ is too generous a term for what he liked most of them for--quick, rough fucks--and he thinks there’s a number of other requirements he’s missing, too. The one Jimmy’s touched on now features prominently. 

There are some in Tim’s list who qualify, but they seem so far away in time that he doesn’t want to claim them for the title. Tim thinks there’s something about Jimmy’s insistence that makes him want to throw up roadblocks. After Jack, Tim doesn’t necessarily want to keep doing what he’s been doing. The regularity--he likes. It’s the eventuality of feeling something for someone else that comes to blindside him, and the inevitable uncoupling that leaves him feeling like he must have all but begged for it. Jimmy looks so hopeful for a taste of it, and Tim wishes he had the words to dissuade him. 

Nevermind the words--Tim doesn’t have an shred of credibility left, sweet-talking Jimmy like he did all up and down the coastal United States.

“You said a lot,” Jimmy snarks right back. The sharp tone jerks Tim out of his thoughts.

“Time was you were impressed by that,” he says, and finds Jimmy looking dismayed and embarrassed again. “Continue. This is very illuminating. I wanna hear more. Should I take a seat, get comfortable?”

“You can go fuck yourself,” Jimmy huffs.

“Jimmy.” Tim bites back a grin and cocks his head. 

“It ain't a joke."

Tim holds open his hands. "Okay."

Jimmy drops back down onto the couch, and momentarily covers his face with his hands. He feels enough like a fool--and by that measure is certain he looks like one, too. He speaks slowly against the palms of his hands, then his fingers, and then open air as he finally shows his face. 

“Do you think I’m wrong? Lying? Why would I?” 

When Tim doesn’t have anything to say about that, Jimmy figures it simply does not matter. “Can you at least tell me,” he begs, “Why you don’t love me back?”

Tim looks down at his drink. “I don’t know if that’s true,” he admits. It’s a terrible thing, he knows, to give hope when Tim’s never accepted hope as legal tender. “But I don’t know that I can trust you. I think that’s most important to me. A harder thing than love, too.” 

Jimmy’s expression is one of abject confusion, and Tim explains briefly: “You were quick to change sides.”

“That was all you, though,” Jimmy insists. Then, like Tim’s love is an argument to be won, Jimmy shouts in a bid of desperation, “You _wanted me to!_ I gave up my job, my life here--I gave up _Boyd_ for you.”

“I didn’t realize being a trained monkey had retirement options.” 

“Why are you acting like a fucking asshole?” Jimmy demands, “When I know you ain’t one?”

It’s an oddly shaped compliment, but given in the spirit of generosity Tim knows is one of the things he really does like about Jimmy. It germinates a warm little flutter of pleasure Tim knows better to indulge in.

He stamps it down, lights a fire, burns it clean. 

“You know, I’m not sure why I don’t _hate_ you.” Tim says. _Scorched. Earth._ “From the start. I mean--what you did, getting me hard in front of Boyd. Letting him march me outta that barn, knowing full well what he meant to do. And every other fucking thing that came after.”

Jimmy wets his lips. “I didn’t say it was love at first sight.”

Tim grins at that. He knows if there’s anything about Jimmy he unequivocally adores, it’s when he’s cornered and says something as brutally honest as this. 

“You’re manipulative,” Tim says, then holds out his arms as if to contain this exact moment. “ _Clearly._ Asking for everything. What the fuck? I don’t even know you.”

Jimmy looks away, then comes back at Tim with a look so betrayed that if Tim lives forever, he know he’ll never forgive himself for. “Yeah, you do. And I know you, too.” Jimmy speaks in a whisper, like that boot found his neck, after all, and the crushing weight of it left even the breath in his lungs bruised and raw. “I’ve seen you scared.” 

“I’ve seen you naked,” Tim shoots back, hating himself for every syllable. “And I don’t know shit.”

Jimmy looks like he’s spent an hour screaming at nothing but cold air. He’s pinched at the edges, pink in the lips and nose but white everywhere else. He looks, Tim decides, like he did after shooting Dilly Crowe: like he’s seen a dead man. 

“It’s like a… _thing_ that happens to you,” he says, a little disgusted and a little in awe. “Being this way.”

Jimmy grabs a fistful of his jacket, his keys from the counter, and slams the door after him.

Tim doesn’t sleep well that night. He stirs every hour, hopeful for a disturbance at his door, but is always disappointed. He gives up even trying for sleep by 4am. He lies awake in bed wondering if losing Jimmy is really going to be this easy. It makes sense--he was easy enough to get.

At 5am, Tim gets out of bed. Between 5:15 and 5:45, he stares at his bookshelf and considers how badly he wants that copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ back, that he’d hazard placing a call to Jimmy so soon after taking the kid’s heartfelt declarations and wiping his ass with them. It’s a paperback reprint, not some prized early edition. He thinks he got it at the Denver International Airport. 

Tim decides he _loves_ the Denver International Airport.

Still, Tim weighs his options for another hour. He’ll see Jimmy again, at the courthouse, _three feet away from his desk,_ even. Tim doesn’t know if it’s worse to wait until their in public to… apologize? Recant? 

At precisely 7am, Jimmy saves him the trouble. He pounds twice on the door and storms in once given an inch. _“Are you sorry?”_ are the first words out of his mouth. 

Tim, caught off guard, doesn’t answer right away. He gets around to it, saying simply, “Yes.”

“You mean that?” Jimmy presses with an intensity that makes Tim feel a flash of smallness. “More than all that other shit you said?”

Tim hesitates less, this time. “Yes.” He’s got a cup of coffee--his second of the morning, despite the hour--and puts it on the counter behind him. 

"Hear me out, then." Jimmy wets his lips once, twice, as if to take some of the sting out of his words. "I may have come on a little strong." 

If he didn’t think it would drive Jimmy away faster than before, Tim would have laughed.

Jimmy continues, quiet, but practiced: “I still… I love you. _Listen, asshole._ I love you. I don’t think I need you to love me too, to keep on with what we have.”

Tim gives him a dead-eyed stare. “You want that, though.”

“I want a lot of things,” Jimmy admits, calling back to Tim’s earlier insult. There’s no malice in it, this time around. “And you’ve given them to me. Maybe this just isn’t one of those things I can have.” 

He’s genuine. Tim can read that on him a mile away, and it reminds him of their first night here, in his apartment. Jimmy was upfront and honest to a point that it crossed desire or hubris and became _bravery._

And god _damn_ if Tim didn’t find that sexy. Still does. There’s a touch of it now, coloring him. It’s brave to come back for something--for Jimmy, it wasn’t Tim. It was his pride, and he’s got that now. Jimmy only hopes that his luck will hold and he’ll come away a double-winner.

Tim licks his lips. “Lemme ask you something,” he says, and doesn’t wait for so much as a hopeful nod on Jimmy’s part. “Do you think I know what the fuck I’m doing? _Ever?_ ”

Jimmy goes wide-eyed, and Tim can see now why he’s so sensitive about being mistaken for stupid. When he’s not on guard, he runs the risk of looking sweet, if not downright simple.

“It all felt pretty… knowledgeable.” 

“Not that--” Tim stops when he realizes Jimmy’s making a joke. He can’t help but smirk in appreciation. 

Jimmy closes in on him, opens his arms in apology. “Why’s either one of us got to know what we’re doing?” The invitation is met as Tim slumps tiredly against the younger man. Just the line itself makes Tim feel old; that was his excuse, back in the day. “Or anybody, for that matter.” 

Jimmy, Tim notices, smells like a farm--but only in the good ways. He smells like cold air and sweat, is warm like animals are, and seems to like to crowd in and share that warmth. Tim knows country, but not farm life. His family was too poor for even that. He doesn’t know how the hell Jimmy still smells this way after a week in Lexington, but doesn’t want to question it. He smells nice, is the bottom line. 

“No,” Tim says at last, and although he doesn’t like the sentiment, expressing it at least gives him a mouthful of that same earthy smell. “Good or bad, we gotta be clear on where we stand.” 

Tim pulls away and takes up his mug of coffee. It’s cooled, and he keeps his eyes on Jimmy while taking a long, steady sip. 

“It’s for the best,” Tim promises, because Jimmy looks uneasy. “Keeps me from being a piece of shit.”

“Okay.” Jimmy sounds unconvinced. He takes the coffee cup from Tim’s hands and sets it on the stovetop behind him, nearest the door. For this, he needs the Deputy’s full attention. 

“You wanna be my piece of shit boyfriend?” 

Tim snorts. He’s remembering what it’s like to joke like this, and wonders if it comes with dating someone in their twenties, or if his time with Jack and all the others came from such a dark and ugly place that Tim forgot how easy it is to enjoy himself-- _being himself_ \--with another person. With someone like him, in a lot of strange and terrible ways. 

“Yeah,” Tim says, leaning in. He bypasses Jimmy and makes for the coffee. Grinning, he takes a triumphant sip. “Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO I DID THE THING. SORRY, NOT SORRY.
> 
> There will be a short epilogue to come. For other giggles, there may be more, short pieces on my tumblr, wellhellolazlo. Swapping headcanons with slashmyheartandhopetoporn has been a hoot!!


	16. Chapter 16

For the third time in as many months, Raylan finds himself back in Kentucky. He’s seen the hills turn dark with cracked leaves, pale with dead grass, and white with snow. He calls Miami home again, and only graces the state in brief stints. But every time he goes back he has to remind himself that it’s only that, and nothing more. He feels like he did the first time, coming back. Feels the land open up and draw him in like air into lungs.

When he gets too comfortable with the wet stink of earth and an unmarred sky crowding down over his shoulders, he reminds himself Miami isn’t a far-fetched dream, it’s a foregone conclusion. Today even, according to a return ticket folded up in his jacket pocket, it’s a scant thirty-six hours away. 

Raylan regrets sometimes it wasn’t a clean break, but some things can’t be helped. 

With a vicodin and some airplane booze in his system (he can’t decide if he doesn’t like flying, or dreads the destination), Raylan surrenders to the effort. He learns a four hour flight isn’t long enough for either dosage, but he gets a rental car, anyway. Raylan drives through the hills and doesn't feel a thing. 

Something in the cold air is sobering, and by the time he's parking at the courthouse Raylan again has his wits about him. 

He doesn't like coming back--still, because of Boyd. Even if the details have changed, it's always going to be Boyd Crowder haunting Raylan's every step in the bluegrass state. As far as the law is concerned, Boyd is the one that got away. Raylan isn't so sure about that, anymore, but that Boyd got out of Harlan at all... It plagues Raylan like an insatiable itch. He feels it now, dancing up and down his bones.

Boyd isn't even cause for Raylan's visit--this one, nor the last two. It’s almost worst, he decides. There’s no struggle on his part--he goes where and when he is summoned. First there was Art's retirement party, and soon thereafter Rachel's official induction as Chief Deputy. Today, it's strictly court business. It takes all of half an hour, and Raylan’s return flight isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. 

He takes the stairs to the Marshal’s offices, sparing the odd smile and handful of hellos for the friendlier faces from his _Kentucky bullshit stint._ So called by Winona, who’s still--understandably--bitter about being forced out of her home. She claims not a single Home Depot in Florida has the same shade of yellow she liked best for Willa’s nursery. And Raylan will pay for that oversight every remaining day of his natural life. 

Raylan doesn’t find either Tim or Rachel, and supposes it was foolish of him to expect they’d be right where he’d left them. Tim’s probably got more work than he can handle, and Rachel--well, hell. She’s new, shiny, and out to prove she’s far more than that. Raylan imagines she’s schooling some heavy-browed, dip-chewing County Sheriff, somewhere. 

Raylan lets himself into Rachel's new offices. Art’s personal items are gone, but in their stead Rachel hasn’t redecorated. Raylan takes in the mostly empty walls as he stands near the same old couch backed against the windows. He sees Rachel’s accommodations, but none of the _good ol’ boy_ paraphernalia Art favored. 

The filing cabinet and desk--she kept those, too. Raylan doubts that’s entirely in deference to Art; Rachel’s never been one for needless accoutrements. She tends to let the work speak for itself.

Raylan does recognize a few things from her old desk: pictures of her parents, sister, and nephew. The only new addition to the lot is a photograph of herself, Tim, and Raylan. Raylan recognizes it--just _barely_ \--as being from Art’s birthday, a year back. Tim’s got a green noisemaker in his mouth and the most serious look on his face--like he means to use the unfurled toy with the plastic yellow fringe to play the complete works of Beethoven. Raylan’s got a party hat perched atop his stetson. Rachel, of course, looks unflappable as ever, stood between her boys. 

He looks over the office and takes in a view he never foresaw for himself. Not that Raylan doesn’t have a high opinion of his work ethic--but he always figured the only way he’d be running an office is if he was wheeling around it, too. Winona still doesn’t like it, but he tried it her way, once. He’s drawn to the field, and anything shy of that he tends to step out on.

Raylan's scoping out the new hires Rachel's brought in--their own replacements--when she steps through the double doors, her badge and gun disrupting the clean line of her charcoal suit. She spies him at once and her face breaks from its sharp visage and reassembles itself as something softer and inviting. 

Somehow, Raylan thinks, she still looks ready to choke a fella out. 

She enters her own office and embraces Raylan in a hug before taking a step back and evaluating him. He’s hardly changed, save for a touch more color--dark on the skin, light in the hair. It seems a lot for only three months' time, but after factoring the baby and the locale, it's about right.

“Look at you,” she says, her voice a teasing croon. “All tall, dark, and handsome.” 

“I feel like a stranger here,” Raylan admits, keeping with her theme. “Half your Deputies have the distinct misfortune of not knowing who I am.”

“Our educational system has failed them,” Rachel laments. “Or maybe they’re just confused by the lack of white horse.”

“Oh, yeah?” Raylan grins, pleased that he’s left some legacy, however distorted. “How was it, replacing yourself?” 

“They're good," Rachel says, avoiding the question. It wasn’t how she wanted to think about the process, but Raylan’s not far off with his wording. "One, I poached from the Tennessee office. The other is new. We can afford them now that the legal fees this office kept on retainer for _you_ have been freed up.” 

Raylan wrinkles his nose, dismayed. “I don’t get a cut of that?”

Rachel invites him to sit, but Raylan continues to stand. He swivels slightly at the hip, looks on over the office, and wonders why he was so eager to leave. He knows it isn't fair to do to himself; one look at his newborn child and he remembers. Still, he can't help but think of what might have been, after. If he'd stayed and help build what Rachel has now, continued to partner with Tim to make an unstoppable team. 

"Art left me a parting gift." Rachel's tone is softer now, like she can hear Raylan's every thought. Raylan takes a seat, then, for the customary two fingers of bourbon. 

“Where’d Tim get to?” Raylan asks, comically looking over his shoulder for a face he knows isn’t near. When he turns back around, Rachel’s pressing a glass into his hand. “Didn’t think you could crack a bottle of Pappy’s without his noticing.” 

Rachel leans back in her seat, triumphant. "Deputy Gutterson,” she intones, “Brought in number seven on Kentucky's most wanted yesterday. Thought he deserved a long weekend."

"You thought that, or he did?" Raylan is quick to ask, but he’s grinning. As far as he knows, this is Tim’s first high-profile get. "Number seven, huh? He creeping in on your record?"

"I encourage all of my Deputies to _try,_ " Rachel says with a wolfish grin. 

Raylan means to ask, but seeing Rachel’s pleased expression, supposes he doesn’t need to: Tim did, in fact, bring this one in alive. It wasn’t a case of point-and-shoot. 

He shouldn't comment on it; Rachel clearly wants the matter to stand as it is--an undeniable success, the new normal. But Raylan just can't help himself: "Well shit, you're really turning this place around." 

Rachel takes a thoughtful sip of bourbon and doesn't respond right away. "It was a rocky start without you. Without Art." Her gaze cuts to the door and she is glad to see it is, indeed, closed. "Tim and Nelson really stepped up--everybody did. But believe it or not, we suffered your absence." She won’t say it explicitly: for all the shit in pulled, Raylan was well-liked here. "Still do, just ask Tim. Apparently nobody appreciates his superior wit." 

"You sure that's the word he used?" Raylan asks, sucking down the last of his bourbon. _“Wit?”_

Rachel purses her lips, determined not to crack a smile. 

"Tell me about 'em,” Raylan drawls. “The fresh meat." It’s his way of asking Rachel about the job--rather than how she handles the pressure or rebuffs any attitude, Raylan focuses on the decisions she’s made. 

"Gloria Fontes took some convincing. She’s hot shit in Memphis, had her choice of offices...” Rachel waves a hand, as if her charms in swaying the rising star need no further explanation. The look on her face says it all: _I wanted her, and I got her._

Rachel continues, “Dan Connelly is former military," Raylan looks like he wants to comment, but Rachel cuts him off. "Marine," she stipulates. "You should have seen Tim's face. Like I'd betrayed him. They get along alright, now. A couple toes stomped on, but that's not unexpected." 

Raylan smiles big for her, because it’s this that she’s really inherited from Art: profound patience for the childish antics of grown men. 

"I'm just waiting for it all to fall apart," Rachel admits quietly. "For someone to take a bullet or pull some stupid stunt."

"I already told ya, I'm not coming back." It’s a joke, but Raylan’s gentle delivery smoothes its landing. Rachel wants to buy into that fantasy--that if such a tragedy was to happen under her watch, it'd be Raylan again. She has to believe, too, that he'd still come out on top. 

"Pictures of your little girl," Rachel says, sitting up straighter. "Let's see 'em." 

Raylan passes her his phone--it's little more than a glorified photo album, now. 

"The pink," Raylan stipulates as Rachel flips through the most recent images of Raylan's tiny daughter, "Was not my doing." 

Rachel smirks, but believes him. While the nursery is a cheerful yellow, the toys and blankets a rainbow of colors, damn near every outfit she's in might as well be from the _Barbie's Li'l Bastard_ collection. Raylan doesn’t seem the type to go shopping for baby clothes--save for the single pair of cowboy booties Willa seems to favor. 

“She’s beautiful,” Rachel tells him, and can’t help but smile at the wealth of images Raylan has captured. There were times she had to wonder if Raylan truly wanted to leave Kentucky, or simply felt the circumstances no longer merited his presence. Rachel doesn’t think she’s in the wrong to think that his infant daughter did not drive Raylan’s departure from Kentucky--only his determination to stay in Miami. 

After returning from Canada with Boyd’s body in tow, Rachel made it a point to watch Raylan. He was quiet, detached. He pulled a few strings and got Ava Crowder removed from state prison and returned to county lock-up, where she’d serve the remaining months of her sentence in relative peace. The worst county had to offer was bedbugs, which a tearful Ava told Raylan she’d gladly take over gang violence and systemic corruption. 

But that was it--his last act, a kindness for a one-time love. 

Rachel’s thoughts are still with the despondent Raylan of three months ago when she realizes he’s thanking her for the bourbon, and again congratulating her on becoming Chief Deputy. 

“You earned it,” he says, then jokes, “Despite the lack of competition.”

“If you wanted it, I don’t know that I’d be here.”

Raylan can’t tell if Rachel’s carefully chosen statement is so much a strong word in his favor, or a subtle thrashing of a system of power that rewards its own over the deserving. He’s quiet--they both are--like they mean to await an official ruling. Inevitably, Raylan tips his hat to Rachel. It’s a concession, but for the job or the bullshit Raylan’s pulled--neither knows for sure. 

"Figure I should say hey to Tim," Raylan says after a time. "You know where I might find him?" 

\- 

Amidst a rackus crowd and loud music, Raylan’s on the lookout for Tim. He has a way of seeking out hiding places and making himself comfortable and as a result, is a difficult target to pin down. When Raylan does spy him, his face is obscured by a tall beer, which Raylan supposes he ought to have been looking for all along. What’s surprising, then, is his company.

Tim is sharing a half-circle booth with Jimmy, and they’re sat closer than the space necessitates. When Tim reaches an arm around Jimmy to signal for another round, he lingers. The gesture becomes heavy with intent. 

They look like they've come in out of the cold--Tim, bundled in a hoodie and coat, Jimmy in that old lambskin jacket. For all their lack of style, they do look happy. Tim's eyes are bright, focused. The drink in his hand isn't clutched like a mace, the necessary completion of his armor. Hell, the grip he’s got around Jimmy’s shoulders is stronger than the one on his beer.

Jimmy spots Raylan first, turns to Tim and then they both have a look. Tim orders a bourbon, which is all the invitation Raylan needs. He wades through the crowd and comes to stand where the two have situated at a small booth just to the left of the bar. Tim’s frequented the establishment enough to know which side the bartender favors, and his drinks arrive swiftly. 

“I am genuinely in shock,” Raylan says, surveying the two. “It’s like seeing one of those celebrity couples out in the wild. One moment, I need a breather.”

Tim presses the bourbon into Raylan’s hand and says, “Stop.”

Raylan continues to grin at the pair. He doesn’t need to ask for particulars; _dating_ isn’t something he can imagine Tim doing. There’s no uncertain territory with Tim. He and Jimmy are together, full stop. It’s absurd in its simplicity: one arm slung over a man’s shoulders, a couple of beer between them, a Friday night.

Raylan doesn’t take a sip, yet; to do so would be to buy into Tim’s effort of silencing him, and Raylan’s never been one to not say precisely what he’s thinking. “Well, shit. You tell this story at parties, though, right?”

“We’ve told this story at literally every party we’ve gone to," Tim allows diplomatically. The drawl in his voice is pure annoyance. 

“Don’t be a morose little shit. You were invited to the Christmas Party.” Raylan finally takes a contemplative sip of his bourbon. “Seder’s coming up.” 

Tim leans into Jimmy and says conspiratorially, “Perfect. Seder, we strike.” 

The arm slips away from his shoulders, and Jimmy smiles sort of awkwardly, like he’s reminding himself to be relaxed. Raylan wouldn’t have guessed that’s something Tim could inspire in others, but the evidence abounds. Jimmy even moves over to make room for Raylan at their small table.

Raylan will not be staying long, all the same. 

After some weak attempts at starting up a conversation through the rowdy atmosphere, Raylan is simply given a handful of answers from Tim. Rachel is right at home in the big office--not a surprise--and the new hires are easy enough to boss around. Raylan learns, too, that Jimmy is working at a firing range here in Lexington. Again, Jimmy’s found a way to surprise him.

"I ain't an instructor," Jimmy clarifies, annoyed. "But my resume says my previous employment has afforded me a unique understanding of assorted firearms use, care, in, uh… extreme conditions.” He seems pleased with his answer--and from the look Tim’s burying into his glass, he’s not alone.

“You come up with that?” Raylan asks--very pointedly--of Tim. 

“What’s it they say about absence? Fondled hearts and shit?” Tim leans in across Jimmy, angles himself more closely towards Raylan. He’s practically tipped over Jimmy’s lap. “Please,” he scoffs. “Like I could write a resume. According to you, I can hardly write my name.”

Raylan teases, “Is it hyphenated now? That can get confusing.” 

Tim holds his position, grins. “I really didn’t miss you at all.”

They sit through the remainder of the set. The band is local, rock with a little bluegrass flare. The girl on drums headbanging her afro makes them edgier than the skinny lead singer would have them appear. Raylan comes to enjoy himself, sheds his coat, and orders a beer to match Tim's and Jimmy’s. 

When they leave the bar, it’s only to step into a ferocious cold that has been mounting its assault all day. Wind churns up snow from the sidewalk--little icy flakes, nothing with any give--and targets bare flesh with incredible precision.

Tim doesn’t follow Raylan and Jimmy, who exit first. He stalls briefly just outside the bar, leans against the wood framing, and seems to be waiting for something. Jimmy and Raylan are halfway across the lot before they notice Tim’s absence. 

“Sorry,” Tim says, distracted. He steps away from the building and into a jog. “Force of habit.”

Jimmy frowns, cocks his head. Raylan looks on and tries to decipher their practiced code.

Tim rolls his eyes, refuses to be embarrassed, and explains himself simply: “Leave a bar, wait to see if anyone follows.” He finishes with a pointed look.

“Oh.” 

“Different kind of bar,” Raylan suggests and Tim comes to stand level with Jimmy.

“You’d be surprised,” Tim says. He bares his teeth in a smile, and his confidence alone--no further prompting needed--gets both Raylan and Jimmy to stall in the cold and watch the bar. Sure enough, a head pops out of the front doors, looks around the sides, spots the three men standing conspicuously like a Greek chorus, and disappears again. 

Raylan’s admittedly a little impressed. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, slowly coming to the realization that Tim was scoping out men in the bar. “Shit.”

“This is good,” Tim tells Jimmy with an amiable brush of their shoulders. “You’ll know what to do when you leave me for someone younger.”

“Not _younger,_ ” Jimmy sighs, and Raylan thinks they must have had this conversation before. “Just better looking.” 

Tim throws his head back and staggers a step, as if physically wounded. “That could be _anyone,_ ” he bemoans, and Jimmy smiles, pleased. 

It catches Raylan off-guard, seeing how they are together. Happy--he certainly didn't expect that. Easy--that's a new one, too. He holds to this strange expectation that he will see the moment pass, watch their faces to alternatively fall and pinch as each realizes it’s not enough just to be happy. But neither rushes to that point, and Raylan thinks he’s in for a long wait.

There's snow gathering at the toes of his boots, and it makes Raylan feel like more of a relic than he did returning to the Marshal offices, now teeming with new faces. 

He decides to back out of the hastily plotted evening, says he’ll catch them for dinner next he’s in town, that he’d rather take a quiet night back at his hotel. He even throws in a joke about a night away from a crying infant being its own reward.

“Bullshit,” Tim says, not believing a word. “You don’t have hotel, you don’t even have an overnight bag.” 

He doesn’t wait for a rebuttal; he knows there’s none to hear. Tim gets into his SUV with Jimmy, and Raylan soon follows in his rental car. 

They trade the bar for _another_ bar, this one masquerading as a restaurant, ordering still more drinks but also some fat, greasy burgers to compliment the taste. There’s a fairly nice steakhouse adjacent to his burger bar, but Raylan figures that’s not how Tim celebrates things, when indeed he finds a cause. Raylan remembers to congratulate Tim on bringing in a numbered fugitive, which earns him a stupid look, which Raylan takes as Tim already being sick to death of congratulations, and no closer still to accepting them gracefully. It also bring a sideways view of Jimmy’s enormous smile, and Raylan figures him responsible for most of the goodwill. 

Raylan finds he’s still unnerved by Jimmy, by how seamlessly he’s fit himself into Tim’s life after escaping Boyd. It’s some big accomplishment, Raylan thinks, for what he is. He's a shitkicker, same as so many in Boyd's employ, who came to be there because they had nothing else going for them. But maybe Tim sees beyond that--or into it. Hell if Raylan knows; he’s drunk. 

Being so, he stares hard at Jimmy, trying to figure him out. He’s brighter than Raylan remembers, and there’s nothing in the clothes or hair that account for that. Both remain fucking stupid.

“Jimmy’s got this great new life now, don’t he?” Raylan throws the comment like a wet towel over the table. It disrupts everything from Tim’s relaxed expression to the meal itself. 

Tim smiles tight and he looks on over his fellow Marshal with a sharpness in his eyes Raylan feels he ought not be subject to. “You drunk already?”

“All he had to do was give up Boyd Crowder,” Raylan says, threading his words loose, like he means to say more. 

Jimmy shoots back, “Wasn’t that what you did?”

Raylan smiles like he thinks it's real cute Jimmy intends to defend himself on this, where the evidence is sat just an inch to his right. 

“Quit that shit,” Tim tells Raylan without hesitation. He waits a beat to see that his order is met, and moves the conversation elsewhere. He asks about Miami, if Raylan’s had any more run-ins with the remaining members of the Crowe clan. Raylan confirms that they are a particular pain in his ass, but are nothing the odd potshot can’t handle. 

“I’d offer to help with that, but,” Jimmy frowns, “Work.” It’s a peculiar thing to hear himself say, even in jest.

“Hours,” Tim agrees, smirking. 

“Being an upstanding member of society ain’t easy,” Raylan chimes in. 

“What would you know about it?” Jimmy mutters sideways into his burger.

Tim watches, amused, as the evening progresses under a hail of fire from both sides’ uncoordinated aggressions. Neither is genuinely angry at the other--only the idea of him. Jimmy should be able to overlook what parts of Raylan are identical in Tim, but instead sees them in saturated amounts: the lawman, the unbending authority. Raylan sees in Jimmy only a shadow of Boyd. However pale, he wants to hate it like the real thing. 

At Raylan's prompting, Tim tells of his recent triumph. He describes a lot of dead ends, a lot of waiting, several more dead ends, and finally a little white-knuckled luck pulled like teeth out of former associates, friends, girlfriends. And just like that, the formerly quiet effort to tail a fugitive and mark his movements was settled violently over a cache of weapons and a half-hour ideological diatribe.

"Mind, I had one of his buddies wear a wire a couple weeks back. I'd heard about all I could stomach of the weakened American male prototype, brought to his knees by the feminization of the state, new age Nazi bullshit. I wasn't in a genial mood." Tim pauses to take a sip of beer. When he starts up again it's as though the tale is just beginning, as sure as it is concluding. 

"And I had the shot," he says, and Raylan schools his expression so as to not give away that he knows the ending, "But I wanted a challenge, so," Tim tries to weasel out of finishing the story. Raylan suspects that means it got messy, which is exactly the kind of shit he wants to hear. 

"You talk him down?" Raylan guesses, and doesn't bother to hide his surprise. He's seen Tim shout someone into submission, but he's not much for spinning a gentle word. And the sort he's describing isn't one Raylan thinks Tim could will himself to sympathize with, even only in an effort to subdue him.

Jimmy looks down, chin tucked to his chest, his smile hidden. Tim did no such thing. 

"I tackled him," Tim says. "Cracked two ribs."

"Yours?"

"What kind of pussy do you take me for? _His._ " 

Raylan smirks. "Before or after you subdued him?"

"Before," Tim insists. "The broken nose, though. That was just for me." 

By the time they leave the restaurant for Tim’s apartment, snow is falling to the ground in heavy flakes. They swirl along a slow path, descending gracefully and melting the second they hit the pavement. Some hugs the ice clinging to the odd grassy patch, but otherwise it’s a fleeting miracle. 

With a few too many drinks in him, Raylan has no further desire to start driving around in search of a hotel. He thinks maybe his time in Miami has softened him, if he’s staring out at this flurry and instead, seeing a blizzard. 

Tim sees the matter pragmatically, but not just--Raylan’s surprised him tonight with more than one off-color comment. Tim doesn’t mean to let that stand. With home-field advantage, he won’t have to. 

Jimmy knocks the snow off his shoes, but hangs back in the doorway. 

“I’m gonna go see Rhonda,” he tells Tim while snaking an arm inside to make away with a set of keys on the counter nearest the door. 

“Don’t fucking call it that,” Tim warns, but Jimmy’s grinning as he starts down the steps towards the second floor of Tim’s building. 

He calls back, a taunt, “That’s her name!” 

Tim turns back around and finds Raylan, a finger lifted in quiet objection. “Don’t ask.”

“Tim, I have got to.” Raylan tents his hands in prayer. “There is literally nothing I need more.”

Tim rolls his eyes and retrieves two beers from the fridge. He’s probably had enough-- _knows_ Raylan’s had enough--but there’s still the matter of pinning down what it is that has the senior Marshal in such a mood. And Tim doesn’t know of a better--and still legal--way of getting answers. 

“Mrs. Lieberman,” Tim starts, “Outta 2B comes to the door, asks for _that nice young man_ she’s seen around as of late. I’m thinking, shit, Boyd’s come back from the grave to hire octogenarians to do his dirty work.”

“Naturally,” Raylan allows, and takes a drink. He settles in on Tim’s couch--which, like the television, is new and lacking any bullet holes. 

“So I case her. You know. Outside of her walker, I think she’s harmless. Anyway. Jimmy’s dog-sitting while she’s on her cruise to fuckin’... Belize. Nasty thing, too. Shih Tzu, had a stroke or something. Barks outta just one side of its mouth.”

Raylan closes his eyes, pleased. “You’re shitting me.”

Tim rightly gambles Raylan isn’t referring to the dog.

“You’ve seen him,” Tim says, loud because the alcohol affords him that much. “All-American. Face like a Gerber baby. The American people want him walking their dogs.” 

Tim joins Raylan on the couch and asks, “How’s the wife and kid?”

“Good. Beautiful.” Raylan inches forward and sets his hat upside down on the coffee table. When he leans back, the smirk on his lips is no longer hidden. “If I ask that of you, do I just shorten it to, _How’s Jimmy?_ ” 

Tim squints his eyes like he would if he was smiling. He is not smiling. “Aw, he’s gonna wanna fuck me just to prove you wrong,” he says, bottle poised at his lips for another sip. “Hope you’re a heavy sleeper.” 

“So it’s domestic bliss, huh?”

“I’m just as blown away as you are.” 

There’s an edge to Tim’s tone Raylan’s somehow overlooked. Normally, he wouldn’t give a shit about testing Tim’s patience with him; Tim does the same, for no better reason than he finds it fun. But there’s something about sleeping on a man’s couch and drinking his beer that has Raylan more inclined towards his oft-forgotten manners. 

“You know I don’t mean that shit,” he says. “I’m impressed. Really. _Surprised._ ” 

“Alright,” Tim drawls. “You got any more adjectives that ain’t all that complimentary to impart on me?”

“I could come up with a couple more,” Raylan offers. 

Tim nurses his beer, unhurried by even his own desire to hear Raylan spit out what it is that’s clawing at his throat, shredding every good word on its way out. “You’re in a fightin’ mood. You short on domestic bliss down your way?” 

Tim thinks he must have nailed it, because Raylan shifts, half-stands. He looks very much the part of a man who no longer desires company, even if it comes with free beer. 

But Raylan only retrieves his phone from his back pocket, and sits right back down. Tim doesn’t mind waiting for what he wants to hear, so he keeps quiet as Raylan fumbles with his phone. Raylan brings up a picture of Willa--this one, taken just that morning. 

“She’s perfect.” Raylan frowns, looking at the picture. He forgets to even show it to Tim. “I want the world for her.” He stares longer and until he seems to see through the item in his hand. Tim glances at the picture, but is more interested in odd twitch of Raylan’s set jaw. If he wasn’t looking at the pink face of his own damn child, Tim could imagine a gun in his hand, a target down the ways, and nothing out of the ordinary. 

“Things with Winona, though. It’ll never be like it was.”

“Where it was was going downhill,” Tim reminds him. He thinks Raylan forgets sometimes that when he makes personal calls at the office, or yammers on during a stakeout, that others--Tim, usually--are listening. 

“Well what do you suggest?” Raylan asks, now donning a cool smile. He pockets his phone again in front, his movements more dexterous now than earlier, like he’s getting a handle back on himself. “Now that you got yourself a boyfriend of a couple months, you’re clearly the expert.”

“A younger boyfriend,” Tim stipulates, “Who is still excited to _suck my dick. Anytime._ ” He enthusiastically mouths and mimes the last part, as if Jimmy is still within earshot. “Yeah. I’d say I’m killin’ it.” 

“You raise a fair point," Raylan concedes, then opens the floor for what he expects to carry the weight of gospel--relationship advice from a former coworker.

Tim brings the flat of his fist to his chest, pretends to clear his throat for some oratory masterpiece. “...I got nothing. Sorry.” Hands up, Tim defends, “I never said I knew shit. I just intimated that things are going great on my end and all the poor decision making once again falls to you." Tim waves a hand in loose circles, “As it should be.”

It’s not much for a sermon, but Raylan hears truth in it, anyway. 

Raylan heaves a long, belabored sigh. If he's going to say anything, he knows it ought to come before Jimmy's return.

“She wants me back,” Raylan says slowly. “She’s scared to say so. Hell, I’m scared to hear it. If it don’t work out that’s strike three.” 

“You think she wants more of the same?” Tim asks, the joking tone of voice replaced by something flat and sure. Tim’s only had these conversations one-way, with Raylan. He isn’t sure he can do anything for the man besides tear down the visions Raylan has of himself and prop-up a truer figure. 

“You got, like, one speed. It’s _fuck me, I’m Gary Cooper incarnate._ All the time, man. I mean, it's beautiful. In its way. Like that fungus that lobotomizes ant brains." 

Then, Tim tempers his half-smile and asks pointedly, "You think she wants that or this," he gestures at Raylan with his beer, "Loving father routine?"

The right answer--they _both_ know this--would be for Raylan to insist it’s not a routine. 

That’s not what Raylan says by any measure. 

“Gary Cooper did _Man of the West_ when he was 57, or thereabouts.”

“You’re thinking you got a few more years, then.” Tim doesn’t have to school himself, now. He feels Raylan’s stagnation like he would his own: heavy and real. Tim’s always assumed Raylan’s blind to the way he comes off, but maybe it’s not that at all. Maybe Raylan--like Tim, before him--sees the way he behaves almost outside of himself. Where Tim saw his Ranger tab and the things he’d done, the man he was supposed to be--Raylan sees his badge. It’s too big a picture to break down and he doesn’t even try, for fear that there’s nothing beyond it. 

“I do,” Raylan confirms. Slowly but surely he adds: “But they’re Willa’s years, too.” 

“Mm.” Tim sips his beer, quietly impressed. He thinks Raylan’s about halfway to reason. He just needs that final push. "Why do you keep coming back here, man."

"Art's retirement, Rachel--" Raylan stops, flustered. He gets to naming names, and things are going to come unraveled. "Court shit."

"Since when have you given two wet shits about the law, after you’ve had your way with it?" Tim asks, grinning. 

He may not have anything in the realm of relationship advice, but Tim knows a thing or two about going back to a place you shouldn’t. 

"Stop coming back here,” he says. “And it'll feel less like you got to." 

It sounds too grave for what he means. He tries to explain, but only ends up digging himself in deeper: “Started spacing out my redeployments before I knew what I was doing. Made it easier to leave. Sort of. In hindsight.”

"You are just in top form with these hard hitting arguments tonight," Raylan says, but the jab is almost gentle. He’s taken Tim’s words to heart, no matter their bumbled delivery.

Tim looks away and smiles. "Hell, you miss me so much I'll come down your neck, philosophize at your leisure. You know I've never been drunk on a boat? Life goal. You can help me attain it."

"You bring Jimmy, you know he's got to wear a life jacket." 

It’s just another joke--no better or worse than those before it--but it strikes Tim the wrong way. He sucks his teeth, spits, “You want to go to Harlan?”

"What?" Raylan instinctively glances at his watch while Tim pretends not to notice, and keeps his expression blank.

“You know, we still go down there, fuck shit up. Don’t think it’s far and gone just ‘cause you defected.” Tim drains his beer. “Just thought I'd ask.”

Raylan assumes the comment for a test. "No," he says, and no further explanation is needed. There is one, though, and it surrounds them. It’s in their bad breath and the fact that Tim’s replaced his ruined belongings, but not moved from where any Crowder hanger-on might know to find him. Tim’s sorry he asked; neither wants to go back, but there is an undeniable draw to the place. It’s outlaw territory, and Raylan hasn’t found peace with it just because his last, lingering connection was snuffed out. 

So Raylan keeps poking at Tim, wanting him to realize that taking a piece of that place doesn’t work, either. 

“So. Jimmy, huh?”

“Do you like this conversation so much that you wanna have it a third time?” The response shoots out of Tim faster than he can think to hold it back, to angle himself away from defensiveness towards Raylan. He tries again, now with Jimmy in mind: “It’s really good, actually.” 

“You don’t think it’s weird--”

“Nope,” Tim cuts in. “I trust him.”

It's a definitive word that Raylan doesn't take lightly. He thinks about all Tim's had to drink and tries to conflate the two--but Tim looks steady, measured in his ruling. 

“He’s over the moon about you,” Raylan says, a smile curling up around the mouth of his beer. How Jimmy ever managed to keep tightlipped around Boyd during their escapades in Mexico, Raylan will never understand. In the bar tonight, Jimmy might as well have been wearing a sandwich board, advertising his complete adoration of Tim. It's a nice comment--his first of the like. It's not a trend he continues. 

Wonderingly, Raylan prompts: “And he’s just… living here?”

“State’s not gonna put him in a hotel indefinitely.” 

“What’s he bring in, working at that range? Minimum wage?” Raylan's earned less in his life, but that's far from his point. "Honest money ain't good money." 

Tim can't genuinely dispute the notion that Jimmy is frustrated by what he's earning, and coming by it piecemeal, to boot. But he's dead certain of one thing: Jimmy is in quiet, constant awe of his life shared with Tim. It took some figuring out ("You _pay_ for cable?"), to start, but he's _happy_ \--and when he mumbles his desire to start chipping in for utilities, _humbled_ \--by a lifestyle he never could have envisioned for himself.

The same applies for Tim. He's never found it difficult to share his space out of necessity, but that's not a category into which Jimmy fits. Tim's never had an arm creep around his middle in the supple, early morning hours of a Saturday, and stayed in bed until well past noon out of _necessity._

“He earns his keep," Tim allows, then innocently elaborates: "He bartends. Makes me feel like the only drunk in the room.” Tim feels he’s about had enough--disparaging comments about Jimmy or not, this is long-winded for Raylan by any stretch. Sighing into his beer, Raylan seems to agree. Still, he decides to go out with a bang.

“How does it work?”

Tim’s eyebrows leap to his hairline. “You can watch later, if you’re really that curious.” 

He’s ready to leave it there, to cut his losses and let Raylan walk away with the digs he’s put in. But something travels his throat like a sickness, and his options double: swallow down his pride, or speak. 

Tim takes a short breath and clarifies Raylan’s question for him: “You mean, _do I mind_ how it works?” 

It’s the same words, but couched in some airtight space. Tim isn’t playing stupid anymore, but instead, letting Raylan know he’s been heard. “Do I mind that the first job he had, he lost ‘cause he mentioned having a boyfriend? At a fucking Costco, like faggots aren’t after a great deal.”

Tim keeps his tone light and continues, almost conversationally, “Do I mind that to get him the firing range job he has now, I had to explain to the owner--a buddy of mine--that I’d been lyin’ when we’d shoot the shit, talking about bad dates and great sex?” 

With a pointed look at Raylan, Tim asks, “Do I mind that I still get stupid-fucking-questions like _how does it work?_ ” 

He holds Raylan’s stare and very deliberately speaks his final words on the matter: “Nah. I don’t mind.” 

Raylan draws a hand over the lower half of his face, tired, weary--and in apology. Like how a child mimes his feelings when he can't quite decipher them. He scratches at the hairs on his neck, last, and from it all comes away shamefaced, but bright. "When I said I was impressed, Tim? I meant that." 

Tim feeds him that purposefully stupid look again--the one from the bar, earlier, when he’d been lobbed his first compliment and not known what to do. The look softens, though, and soon Tim is thoughtfully pursing his lips, a long-awaited and simple _“thanks”_ on the ready. That much, he thinks, is owed to Raylan. It comes out in three stunted and broken efforts: _Thanks. Thank you. Really._

Raylan bumps their empties together. There's a louder sound than anticipated, and both men are just inebriated enough to look down, expecting broken glass between them. But the noise is simply the door, jerking open and then banging shut against the cold. Jimmy's back, tinged pink and grinning. He twists out of his jacket and announces: “There is dog shit _everywhere._ ” 

Tim finds this astute observation particularly hilarious. He stands a little too fast, jeers a little too loud: “Fantastic. Tell me more while I suck your dick, huh?”

Jimmy doesn't even have his boots off. He's bent, and now fixed, with one leg crossed over the other, ass planted against the door for support. “What?”

“We were just talking about you," Tim says, as if that's explanation enough for why he's suddenly so horny--and so vocal about it. He crosses the room, deposits his and Raylan's empty beer bottles in the garbage bin stood flush with the wall to Jimmy's right. He teeters over it and then steadies, and holds position in front of Jimmy. “So?” 

Raylan can't see what Jimmy does, but he hears evidence of it: first, the sound of a zipper opening. Second, Tim's stipulation, drawled warmly: “In the bedroom, smartass.”

Jimmy flings his boots off, and doesn't straighten them like Tim's done with his own. Raylan sees Jimmy lean in over Tim's shoulder and whisper something. It earns him a grin, and by the look on Jimmy’s face--he knows he’s been rewarded. He goes to the bedroom, and Tim follows.

But Tim stalls, turns, and looks at Raylan like he'd forgotten about him.

"Well," Tim hangs in the doorway, arms up and fingers clenching the high ridge along the door. The front of his t-shirt comes untucked, even. In a bizarre kind of last stand, Tim is pronounced before the facts. He couldn't make himself any clearer if he stripped down to nothing: Jimmy is here, is his. They share a jokes and a bedroom. 

Tim's smile is loopy but his stare is hard. He's quickly approaching that drunken peak where every appendage feels warm and loose, and not to stretch himself long and lean would do a great disservice to the brew sloshing inside of him. It streams through every vein, reaches every port. Behind him, Jimmy’s got his hands stuffed into Tim’s jeans pockets, itching to get the festivities started. 

"Cinemax is channel seven-hundred," Tim says, and jerks slightly at the hand that's now on his waist, fingers digging into his belly. "There’s ice cream in the freezer. Entertain yourself." 

“I appreciate it,” Raylan says, rising. He’ll be having that ice cream. “All the same, understand that next time, I’ll get a hotel.” 

“Next time,” Tim agrees. 

They're both pleasantly surprised that day doesn't come for another six months. Jimmy is less than enthused that Raylan doesn’t hold to his word, and again spends the night on their couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well--that’s it! Thanks so much for sticking with it, readers. Even after I dropped off the face of the earth for two months, your encouraging comments brought me back! Seriously--when projects like this start to get out of hand I forget that this is actually REALLY FUN and I’M HAVING A BALL, the response is a big reminder. So, thanks. :)


End file.
